


Red Blossoms

by RevanStar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A House Danarya Original, Alt-Canon Verse, F/F, Fan Rage Fueled Writing, Fix-it fic, Gay Ladies being in love, Gay ending, His name is NOT Aegon, Mid-Level Jon Snow Bashing, Minor Character Deaths, OG Stargaryen, Robo-Bran, S8 Leaks, Sansa/Jon Implied, Soft M Rating, Spoilers S7, Spoilers S8, Step-Parent!Arya, THIS IS NOW CANON, barely edited, danarya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 13:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12036477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevanStar/pseuds/RevanStar
Summary: Started this on 8/9 Finished it on 8/22. Between the S7 Leaks and the S8 Leaks I was so filled with rage that I had to fix the shit infused dumpster fire that is GOT.  Events do not happen in canon order because I wrote about them before they actually happened in the show.If someone wants to come up with a good summery for this story I'd greatly appreciate it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler Warning for S7 AND S8 Leaks. 
> 
> Relationships: Arya/Dany, Past Dany/Jon (Mentioned), Past Lyanna/Rheager (Mentioned), Past Dany/Darrio (Mentioned), Jon/Sansa (Implied but also not really), and a handful of mentions for other ships. 
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of Miscarriages. Mild Jon Bashing. Lite-Steam (I cant do smut apparently lol), Canon Typical Other Stuff. Deaths of Minor Characters. 
> 
> This was originally posted as a House Danarya Exclusive. ( http://house-danarya.freeforums.net/thread/155/red-blossoms-house-danarya-exclusive ) Its barely edited, even after a quick beta read by the wonderful Miller. So any mistakes you notice...you can blame onthe insane speed in which I wrote this story in.

 

**Red Blossoms**   
_Part 1_

\- - - -

A girl had been given a name, one on her list. Valar Doheris, this would be the last name she is given. Cersei's death would free her from the yoke of the House of Black and White, but to do so means a girl would have to go south, leaving her family's fate once more in the hands Gods.

The price of freedom was one that could be paid only in blood.

But first, Arya had business to take care of here in Winterfell.

That business had a name. Or rather, two names, by which he would be called in the end mattered little to her. He was being an idiot.

Eyes of Steel watched as her dark haired brother-cousin fled the crypts shortly after the Targaryen queen had entered. She knew what Bran and Samwell had told him, the questions and doubts that must swirl in his mind like a monsoon. She wasn't surprised by the truth, she had suspected even as a child.

But then she had been closer to her so called bastard brother then the rest of her siblings. And unlike the rest of the Seven kingdoms, she had never taken the story of her Aunt's supposed kidnapping at face value.

That Jon's dark eyes had sometimes appeared a night purple had not been a trick of the light. And for all his northern colors, she had grown up mildly obsessed with Targaryens and Dragons, more so the warrior sister-wives of Aegon the Conqueror, and had seen passed the dark hair, and scruffy beard to the shades of Valyrain in Jon's face, and build.

She could see it more strongly when he stood next to the Queen, his aunt. She did not blame others for not seeing as she did. Not when Jon standing next to Sansa brought to mind the memory of her father and mother to all who saw them.

But the blind ignorance of some, and the willful ignorance of others, nor Jon's self doubts did not change the fact that he was an idiot.

She waited until Daenerys exited the crypts, looking pale and a bit wane as she made her way back inside the warm halls of Winterfell before she herself turned to head to the training courtyard.

It wasn't just self doubt and an crises of idenity that had Jon torn in two. It was the women that would stand at his side. Arya had seen much since she had returned, and heard more. There was a longing in her brother when Sansa was near. A simmering guilt laden heat that laid between the two supposed half siblings.

She wondered if they had bedded each other yet. She didn't think so. Jon wouldn't have dared, too much like the man that had raised him to do more then yearn. Sansa though. Her sister had changed, harden in the heat of the south like a blade tempard in the forge. She had seen it with her own eyes, tasted her sister's inner darkness in the air the day she had Arya slit the throat of Little Finger.

Would Sansa had laid with a man she thought her half-brother by blood? She didn't know. Sansa and Jon had never been close, which was why the level of intimacy that smoldered between them had caught Arya's attention in the first place.

She didn't think so, but she wouldn't put it past Sansa to try and keep Jon close. He had been named King of the North, as Eddard's Bastard, over their father's true born daughters.

Arya did however suspect that the pull between the two had been what had driven Jon into the bed of the dragon queen. Not, that Arya could blame her brother-cousin, there was something about the ashen haired woman that pulled at Arya herself, tugging at the place just below the navel and a bit more personally, caused an ache in the girl's chest, as if she had been struck and left winded. Though she didn't think it was the same for Jon.

He was after all half in love with Sansa, and she him. She didn't think even Jon would be so fickle as to be swayed by the simple minded lust a comly face and a ripe pair of tits could cause in a man when his heart yearned for another. But Jon wasn't the boy from her memories, any more then she was the little girl from his.

Still, his actions left him torn between two women, and that was without knowing that Dany was likely with child, his child, his bastard. And wasn't that ironic.

As for Arya herself...

It wasn't that the Queen was beautiful. Though Daenerys was, but Arya had seen many purple eyed, and ashen haired women of equal or even greater beauty in her time across the Narrow Sea.

Or strong, sharing the same strength she saw in Sansa, the strength of a woman who had endured that which would have broken a man. Arya had met her share of strong people, with different types of strengths, and strength in any form was not enough to draw her.

Or Intelligent, the Queen was that as well, one did not go from rags to Queen by conquest on strength of her armys, or physical beauty alone after all. However; she had met many learned men, and many learned women. Men and Women both clever and quick of wit, many smarter then the Queen no doubt.

It was none of these alone, and yet all together and that which Arya had no name for, which tugged at her navel and chest, and quickened her blood.

Arya puzzled over what it was that drew her to the Queen as she slide from one kata to another with slow, precised movements. She had yet to speak to Daenerys since she arrived at Winterfell with Jon, there hadn't been time nor opprunity. But there was something there, something that clenched at her chest, and put stones in her stomach when she thought of the fact that Jon had laid with the ashen haired woman.

Whatever it was, she doubted Jon had given much thought to it beyond the Queen's beauty. She loved her brother, for he was her brother, if not in blood, then in her heart. But he was still just a man, and men rarely looked deeper beyond the surface.

Pushing it from her mind, she refocused her mind. There was a war against death itself coming, and she needed to be ready for it.

Valar Morghulis, but not today.

\- - - -

The others were in a meeting in the great hall. And had been for the last few hours, leaving Arya to her own devices. It wasn't that she had been barred from attending. Neither Jon, nor Sansa had denied her right to do so. But Arya understood her strengths better then most, and they did not lay in long winded arguments and debates about the best course of action. Nor where they in bringing those who disagreed around to her way of thinking.

_'Stick 'em with the pointy end'_ She thought with some humor. They hadn't been meant as words of wisdom or advice to live by when Jon had said them to her years ago when he had gifted her with Needle. But they were ones that had saved her life more then once, eventually leading her back home to Winterfell.

_'But its not really home any more is it?_ ' She thought as she wondered down the hall that contained the personal quarters of the remaining Starks, as well as a few of their closest, most trusted advisers and friends.

A sound drew her to a stop, Arya's head tilting to one side, listening carefully. No one was supposed to be in this part of the inner keep since all by she should be within the great hall. It took but a minute to identify both the sound, and from which room it was coming from.

Someone was ill, retching from the sounds of it. Concern, Arya followed it noise, ignoring propriety, to enter without stopping to either knock nor gain permission, she slipped into the room, quietly latching the heavy door shut behind her.

It took another minute for her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the chambers beyond. Sparsely lit, Arya care just make out that these chambers had once belonged to Old Nan. Though they no longer looked the same, but that was no surprise to Arya.

_Uuueg. Uhhhhhhuuuuttack._ The sound of further retching, and stomach clenching dry heaving brought her attention to the small water closet off to the side. The room was little more then a closet. With room for a small tub built for basic washing, rather then soaking against the back wall. A modest size mirror over a counter with a raised wash basin on the other. And a boxed in chamber pot just on the other side of that. Half hidden from view for the sake of further privacy.

And there kneeling on the stone floor was Daenerys, head pillowed against her left arm as her right had struggled to hold back the mess of ashen hair that threaten to join spit and bail with the human waste in the chamber pot.

Arya could see the sheen of cold sweat that glittered like tiny stars on the back of the Queen's pale neck, and across her shoulder blades, bared to the chill of the water closet thanks to the low cut, short hemed dark silky night dress she wore.   
  
She could only see Daenerys' profile, the pale furrowed brows above closed eyes, the sheen of sweat at her temple. Even in the misery of her morning, or rather mid day sickness, the woman did strange things to Arya.

“ _How long will this last Missandei?”_ The words where a mostly muffled groan of High Valyarian, slurred slight in the woman's misery. Arya blinked to hear it, clearly the Queen had noted her presence, but because she had not lifted her head, or open her eyes she had assumed she was her loyal handmaiden. Though she was mistaken, Arya was impressed that the Queen had even sensed her.

_Oohhmmpmm uhhhuuurrrt_ Lifting her head quickly, the Queen once more had her face to the chamber pot opening, Seeing the way each dry heave shook the other woman's frame, bunching and tensing her muscles as her stomach clenched over and over, having expelled everything within, yet still wanting reject more.

Arya gave a quiet sigh. Pouring fresh water from the pitcher into the basin, she wetted a clean cloth in the cool liquid, making sure it was well rung before she moved over to the still heaving woman. Kneeling behind her, she pressed the cool damp cloth to the back of the woman's neck as she gathered the Queen's hair with one hand, helping hold it back, as her left reach down and around Daenerys' waist, a sure hand gently rubbing soothing circles on the queen's quivering stomach.

It took a few minutes for the dry heaving to pass, but once it did, Daenerys leaned back against the form behind her as she tried to catch her breath and wait for the trembling in her muscles to stop. Eyes closed, she rested her head against Arya's shoulder, and Arya let her, even knowing the Queen thought she was her handmaiden, she allowed it because it was clear the other woman needed the rest, and likely did not trust very many to see her vulnerable.

It made Arya feel guilty for her silence. But Arya had seen the way this sort of sickness could wear on a woman. She saw it in her own mother, when she had been pregnant with Rickon. And with other women within Winterfell as a child. And she saw it during the War, and many times ago in Bravvos. And that was without the burden of a crown, and the weight of a impending War for the very survival of all living things.

More then that, Arya knew it herself, retching into the chamber pot, sobbing with fear, and with each dry heave that shook her body each morning. Her own pregnancy had been the result of a mission, a gift that needed to be given to a man that spent many nights in a brothel. It was a different face she had worn, but it was her body that paid the price. It had been both a horrible nightmare and a sweet relief when she had woken one morning, three months after her last moon's blood to god awful stomach cramps, with her thighs and bedding slick with so much blood.

“ _It wasn't like this when I was pregnant with Rhaego”_

Oh ~ A memory, of her Father's angered muttering after a council meeting came to her then, half faded with the years. Daenerys had been with child before, a child that Robert had wanted slain while still in the womb if her recollection of her father's angered rant in what he thought was a empty room was correct.

She recalled hearing nothing further of the child of Daenerys and the Khal. Either Robert had been successful or Daenerys had lost her son in another fashion either before, or shortly after his birth.

Privately, Arya wondered if her Aunt's pregnancy was frouht with such miserable symptoms. Perhaps the old magic that ran thick in the veins of House Stark did not mix well with the magic that flowed through the blood of old Valyaria.

Arya pushed those thoughts from her mind, opening her mouth to let Daenerys know just whom she was speaking to. But the queen continued, and Arya kept silent, simply continuing rub circles over the dragon queen's lower stomach, and using her other hand, now free from its previous duty, to rub the other woman's lower back.

“ _Even the three others that I lost after Rhaego hadn't brought me such sickness. I hadn't even known I was with child until each time I found my thighs slick with blood, and my stomach cramping”_

Daenerys knew whom she was speaking too, or rather, who she wasn't speaking to. Not at first, but when she had leaned back into the arms that had offered her comfort she knew it was not Missandei. The hands on her stomach and now back were to strong, sure, callused. The Arm around her waist felt toned with muscle in the way her handmaiden's wasn't. The shoulder her lead rested on to broad. To say nothing of the cool press of leather against her bare shoulders and back, and the smallness of breast.

It also wasn't Jon. She knew that as well. For while the person who held her was strong, sturdy, they were also too small. Plus Jon would have spoken by now, uncomfortable, awkward, demanding answers. Answers he would already have if he had not taken to constantly fleeing from her since their ill advised night of passion on the ship north.

And while she wasn't one hundred percent sure as to the identity of the person, likely woman, for a boy would not know what to do with a woman caught in the throws of morning sickness, she did not feel as if she was in danger from her silent companion. And in truth, what was the harm in speaking these words when her the arms that held her, offered her comfort in this moment of misery and weakness would not understand what she was saying.

“ _It was a mistake. To sleep with him. But I hadn't known the comfort of anothers touch since Darrio. And I... never thought I would be able to have a child after all. Not after that witch cursed me, not after three miscarriages. So what was the harm I thought, I am practically barren, unable to have children beyond the dragons I had brought to life.”_ Daenerys continued, keeping her eyes closed, letting herself relax into her silent companion as she laid herself bare.

“ _But now I am with child, the child of a man I do not love, and do not desire beyond the one night we shared. And I am afraid, not of the war for our very survival that will soon be fought. I am afraid that Jon might try to use this child against me. Or worse, I will loose the child as I had Rhaego, and the three I never got to even feel flutter inside of me.”_

Daenerys' voice cracked with her confession, and she was even more thankful then for her silent companion who still said nothing even as two arms came up to wrap around her chest, pulling her further back against the person who held her. Daenerys for her part reached up, two pale hands clenching at the leather clad forearms that held her in a firm hug as she felt a warm cheek press against one of her own cooler, tear wet ones.

_\- - - -_

It had taken time for Daenerys to cry herself out, Arya had managed to pour the Queen a cup of water without either of them getting up from where they sat on the cold stone floor, so that she may rinse the bail out of her mouth and sooth her throat, raw from both her sickness and her crying jag.

Emotionally exhausted, and already physically spent, the Targaryen woman ended up falling asleep nestled in Arya's lap. Throughout, Arya had remained silent. There wasn't words she could offer in comfort without sounding patronizing to the other woman's fears. And Arya sensed that the Queen had only spoke so freely because she believed that Arya couldn't understand her.

With a soft groan, for her knees were stiff from sitting for so long on the cold stone, Arya slowly, carefully lifted the slumbering Queen into her arms and out of the water closet. They had been in there a good two candle marks judging by how far the few scattered candles in the main bed chamber had burned down.

That no one had come looking for the Queen told the assassin that the war meeting was likely still on going. No doubt the Southern lords continued to bicker of minor details while the Northern ones were kicking up a fuss about possibly bending the knee to a Targaryen Queen.

Carefully navigating in the dim light and half shadows of the Queen's temporary quarters, Arya gently laid Daenerys on the bed. The woman barely stirred as Arya pulled warm cotton sheets and heavy down comforters and thick furs over her sleeping form. After a moment of hesitation, Arya walked on silently feet back to the water closet, returning a moment with a dampen wash cloth.

With great care, Arya used the cloth to wipe the tear stains from Daenerys cheeks, frowning at the dark circles under the other woman's closed eyes. She was a little startled to realize how young the queen was at first, until she remembered that she was just a few months older then Jon, and perhaps only five years older then she herself.

Arya mentally scolded herself for her surprise at the Queen's obvious youth. Years blinded by her hatetrad of a different Queen had meant that Arya had built up the image of a queen needing to be older, like Cersei, or her own lady mother. A child's mistake, she knew, and none of them were children any longer.

Absently, Arya trailed the cloth across Daenerys brow, down her cheeks, along her jaw, and then down her neck. Cleaning away the dry sweat from her bought of illness with one hand while the other gently brushed ashen hair away from the other woman's face, tucking the silver strands behind ears.

Jon is an idiot. Arya thought with a shimmer of heat of her brother. It took two to make a child, - although the women of House Mormont would have to believe otherwise. Refusing to speak to the woman who slumbered in the bed the edge of which she sat upon, wouldn't change the fact that Jon had sired a child, a bastard with the Targaryen Queen. Even he couldn't be so thick as to not have noticed Daenerys' symptoms and done the math.   
  
Daenerys said that sleeping with Jon was a mistake. For more reason then the Queen knew, it was a mistake. But the woman didn't sound like she regretted the fact the outcome was a child that now quickened in her womb. Merely afraid of what would become of that child.

Arya would like to believe that Jon wouldn't do as Daenerys feared. He wouldn't come and take the child away, wouldn't use the child to lay claim to the Iron Throne himself. A Throne, that according to Samwell, Jon had more right to then Daenerys anyways.

But she didn't know for sure. The Jon she had known would have never allowed the Northern Lords to crown him King in the North, not so long as Eddard had living true born children. The Jon that walked these halls was one that was obsessed with stopping the Long Night, was a Jon that would do anything to unite the seven kingdoms against the threat beyond the wall. That Jon, this new Jon who was both Wolf and Dragon, he might be capable of doing as the Queen feared, he would, if it meant stopping the Night King.

It was disturbing to think that Jon might be capable of such a thing. But then Jon also slept with Daenerys when he was clearly half in love with Sansa. She needed to stop judging her remaining family by who they were, and start thinking of them in terms of who they are.   
  
Being a faceless man was not a simple matter of putting on a new face. One had to become that person, and that meant knowing every move they would make, every word they would speak, every action they would take, even in the most improbable, unlikely situations.

She had done it with Walder Frey. She had studied him and those around him for weeks before she had fed him his own sons, before she had taken his face, and his form to poison the rest of his ill-bred brood.

In a sense she needed to do it with her own family. She needed to see them as they were now, so that she could predict them. It pained her to think it, to think of studying her own blood as if they were targets, names to be offered to the nameless god. But necessary, she had come home to a Winterfell full of strangers with familiar faces.

Lost in thought Arya allowed her fingers brushed against the soft skin of Daenerys' cheeks, and for a moment lingered as the pad of her thumb brushed tenderly under the dark shadows beneath the Targaryen woman's right eye.

This Queen was a different sort of problem for Arya. The woman was stubborn, and temperamental in a way that bordered on a touch of madness. But there was a righteousness to it too. And under that a strong sense of justice and fairness. And Arya was not blind to the depth of loyalty she inspired in those that followed her. Nor that that loyalty was returned. She had no doubt that Targaryen Queen would bring both fire and blood onto those who would harm the people Daenerys loved.

And now she had peaked beyond the mask of the Queen, to the young woman underneath. Daenerys was just human, for all her fire, and her dragons, and her fierce temper. Seeing the woman kneeling before the privvy, dry heaving with a bad case of morning sickness because of a ill-advise one night affair, hearing her pair from the loss of her son, from three other miscarriages, hearing her fears...

The variability she had displayed, the unknowing trust she had placed in Arya had sparked a silent surge of protectiveness within the once faceless man.  
Arya had had few affairs in her time across the Narrow Sea, often it was business, a means to a end in service of the nameless god. Including the one that ended with her conceiving a child, and ultimately miscarrying. Others were for release, for pleasure. The latter always with women, as was her preference. Few as those more pleasurable affairs were she recognized that the Queen stirred her rarely inflamed desires.

But it went just beyond the physical, she knew that now. And in the privacy of her own mind she cursed Jon for his stupid foolishness, and cursed the weakness of men for being unable to think beyond the hardness of their cock and want to sink it into the slick wet heat of a woman.

It was the wisful sigh from sleep parted lips, and the way the Queen leaned ever so slightly into the touch that jolted Arya back to herself. Giving herself a mental shake, she hastily drew her hand back before rising, returning to the privvy once more.

This time she took a moment to splash cool water on her own face, to draw in and push out calming breaths to still and refocus her mind. Now was neither the time, nor the place for such thoughts.

She would leave soon for the south. To give Cersei the gift, one last name given to the faceless god, so that she herself may be free of the yoke that bound her to service.

With luck, she would return to Winterfell in time to aid in the coming war. If not, she could only pray that her family, and now that must include the woman slumbering in the next room, came out the otherside unharmed, healthy and hale.

Once more Arya dampened the cloth and rung it out before she returned to the Queen's side, with care, she placed the cool folded cloth upon the woman's brow, before retreating from the bedside to blow out the majority of the still burning candles.

Pausing at the door, hand already on the knob, Arya hesitated, and turned her head just slightly, to view the sleeping Queen from the corner of her eye. Softly, in a low whisper, Arya spoke.

“ _Sleep well, and rest easy. I will not speak of what was spoken of here today.”_ Arya whispered, her own High Valyarian slightly rusty after months in Westeros. Then as quietly as she had originally entered, she was gone.

Valar Doheris.

\- - - -


	2. Chapter 2

 

 **_Red Blossoms_ **  
_Part 2_

 

\- - - -

Over the course of the next week, mysterious gifts as they were began to show up for Dany. Nothing grand, and they appeared without fan fare, nor clue to their giver. But they were thoughtful little things.

A pot of peppermint tea on the table in her room after her first bought of morning sickness of the day.

Peppermint or ginger candies – the sort that were easy and common in Essos, but both hard to find, and even expensive now that she was in Westeros- in her pockets, or those of Missandrei, or even Tyrion. - How they got there, none of them could figure out-

Chilled Ginger Tea served at lunch. Water, infused with different fruits from Winterfell's glass garden served at dinner. Both poured for her instead of the ale, mead or mulled wine that others would drink.

Tyrion had expressed concern over each instance. Insisting that a taste tester test a sample of each thing that appeared, worried about foul play. But Dany waved him off. If who ever was giving her these things was able to slip candies into their pockets without them knowing wanted her dead. She would be dead.

The thoughtful gestures were greatly appreciated; Dany was aware how expensive peppermint was, given that it was a hybrid plant, originally bred in parts of the Free-Cities, where it was now fairly cheap. And she was more then a little mystified at how someone had managed to find ginger, and ginger candies in the North.

It wasn't the expense or the effort someone had gone through to provide these things, so much of how much of a difference they made in just how often she felt her stomach roll, and the need to vomit, until she was only doing so a few times in the morning hours.

As an added bonus, the tea also helped with her headaches which in turn made her less tired and less irritable. She also was thankful to notice that something was also helping reduce the tenderness of her breasts.

And while Missandrei, Grayworm and Tyrion both where clueless as to whom the gift giver was. Dany suspected it was the same person who had helped her during her last serious bought of sickness, one that had kept her from attending yet another meeting in the great hall.

The Queen had turned trying to figure out the identity of the gift giver, and her silent companion into something of a game. Already she knew she could eliminate anyone who had been in attendance of the for mention meeting in the great hall. And she knew that the person must be a woman, and one who either had personal experience with pregnancy – a mother themselves perhaps – or at least someone who had spent time around other expecting women to know what sort of things helped.

It also had to be someone who had access to the third floor of the private wing of quarters where the Starks, and because she was a 'guest of honor', she herself, had quarters. The Stark's inner circle, and her own had quarters one floor below. And had access to the third for practicality of course.

Both Maesters Wolkan and Samwell had access. But while Maester Wolkan was the one to confirm her pregency, his previous suggestions as to remedies for her sickness had proven that the gifts were not from him. More then that, _he,_ was not a _she._ And Dany sure that the gift giver and her silent companion are one in the same.

There were the various members of the house hold staff, servants and vassles of House Stark who did the cooking, washing and other assorted task that made Winterfell livable. The most trusted of these would have access to the chambers of the third and second floor of the family wing. And many of them were women, of whom she was sure a number had, or had had children of their own, perhaps even grand children.

However, Dany hardly thought any one of them would be so bold as to take such liberties as her silent companion had. And more then that, peppermint and ginger both were not cheap; hardly something a servant would be able to afford.

The day after she had woken with a terrible hang over after one too many glasses of wine, and spent the better part of the morning with her face in the privy, she had return to her room to discover all alcohol, save a single bottle of wine had been removed from her chambers. That the alcohol was missing itself was not a big deal, Daenerys rarely indulged outside of of meals, or evening drinks with Tyrion.

What was annoying was the note that had been affixed to the remaining bottle with plain candle wax. ' _ **No**_ ' it had read, in a sure practice hand. The single word, written on unremarkable parchment had been slanted strangely.

When she had taken the note to Tyrion, her hand had remarked that who ever wrote it, and there for, stolen the alcohol must have been left handed.

To his knowledge, there was only one person in Winterfell who was left handed.

Arya Stark.

The only problem was that Arya Stark had left earlier that afternoon, leaving Dany with more questions then answers.

To add to the mystery, the small gestures and gifts didn't stop even though the young woman herself had suppsingly left the keep. Their method of delivery had simply change. She found both types of candies in small bowls in her room, and that of Tyrion, whose chambers they often met in.

Her morning tea was still delivered, only now it was done so by one of the house hold servants under the watchful eyes of the Unsullied guard Tyrion had placed at her door after her wine had vanished.

She had question the woman, who only said that she was only doing as told, she knew not from whom the order was from. She did the same with the servants who poured her chilled ginger tea at lunch, and the infused water at supper. They pointed her to the head cook.

The cook, a plump older woman with a grandmother's face but a military commanders no nonsense attitude told her that she had gotten a note, that came with the teas, that simply requested that the Queen be served non alcoholic beverages, discreetly. But if her grace would rather she stopped? Daenerys didn't.

The woman had patted her hand then, giving a knowing smile and promised to make sure that she had the girls put more fruits and vegies on her plate. Which left the Queen with the impression that the cook, no doubt the matriarch of her own family, knew exactly why Daenerys was drinking teas and water instead of mulled wine and spice ciders.

Daenerys, if she wasn't so caught up in being more then a little annoyed, would have had to admit that she was actually rather impressed.

If Arya Stark was in fact her mysterious gift giver, she had done well to keep this fact hidden, and to ensure that it was all done with the up-most discussion. It also meant that at least one of the Starks knew that she was with child, and that made Dany more determined to confront Jon about it.

Unfortunately the so called King in the North was still steadfastly avoiding her outside of business. And even then he went out of his way never to be alone with her. That the child growing inside her womb was his wouldn't change her mind regarding their relationship. - Such as it was.- She had taken a leave of her senses, and had sought release in a convenient person.

The very short lived affair had been enjoyable, and Jon, while lacking in experience had been fairly intense and even a touch enthusiastic when it came to her own pleasure, ensuring that she had achieved release even before himself. But beyond that, Dany had had better, more skilled lovers, male and female alike.

Jon had been... average, in both preformace and size.

She had no intention of renewing the affair. And while she could force the issue and use the child they had conceived to bind the North to her by blood and by marriage. Dany had had enough of marrying for politics and power, of selling herself for peace. And she would not use her unborn child in that manner either.

However, she did believe that Jon had the right to know. So his avoidance was a thorn in her side.

\- - - -

Near the end of her first trimester, a Raven arrived on the first morning she awoke without a single bought of vomiting.

_**'Queen Cersei is dead. Long Live King Euron Greyjoy.'** _

The news had sent a ripple through Winterfell and hours upon hours of discussion and debate followed in the great hall after Jon called an emergency meeting of the many Lords that were still in attendance.

“Drowned in her own vomit after a night of heavy drinking I hear. - Almost poetic that drink took her, as it took her late husband Robert.” Had been Varys' dry response, filling in the missing details, no doubt whispered in his ear by his little birds, that the official note had been lacking.

 _'Valar Morghulis'_ Dany thought with grim satisfaction on the death of the woman who had ordered the slaughter of so many of her people. Whose father had ordered the murder her young neice and infant nephew and her good-sister. Innocents in a war against her father, blameless and yet brutally slain.

Tyrion had looked conflicted over the news. He had wanted Cersei to die, of course, he admitted that his sister was insane, paranoid, and deserved to have her life snuffed out. But her Hand had a good heart under that drink loving, whoring mask he wore, and no doubt had had at one time some love for his older sister. He still insisted that they could count on his last remaining close kin, his brother Jamie to honor his word and bring the remaining forces of the south north to fight the undead army.

Rather or not that was so remained to be seen. Daenerys however wasn't going to count on Jamie arriving either on time, or at all in future battle plans.

By contrast, Tyrion's former wife, Lady Stark looked simply relieved. A feeling that Dany could understand given what she had heard of all that she had endured at the hands of the Lannisters. The look had been fleeting of course, before Sansa had schooled her face into a placid mask

Talk turned to the new 'King', and what could, should, be done about him and when.

The Salt King provided a different sort of challenge. A new one. He was a unknown player, half mad, power hungry, with a thirst for blood and glory both if Theon accounts of his uncle's behavior when Euron's fleet attacked her own was anything to go by.

Most thankfully agreed that Euron would likely hunker down at StormsEnd, seeming to think that it was the place to be should the White Walkers be an actual thing. To let the allied forces either parish completely in the face of the undead horde, or weaken themselves greatly against them, only to have Euron sail in to finish them off.

It was not a pleasant thought. But it was the most likely possibility. And at least that made the Salt King a problem for the distant future, the uncertain _after_ , should there be one.  
  
Afterwards, when most of the gathered Lords had left, and she and a few others were left lingering, scattered about in quiet discussion.

Jon and Sansa were clearly in some sort of heated debated, the dark haired man had given Lady Stark some papers, and Bran, the youngest of the remaining Starks quietly interjected, followed by Maester Samwell. She couldn't hear what was being said. But it was curious, more so the few times the four had looked or gestured in her direction.

She had heard that Bran had somehow gained the ability of Sight. Whispers said he could see what was, what is, and what would or could be. Dany wasn't sure if that would be a useful thing to have, or maddening. Maddening she thought. It would be maddening to know something terrible was coming and be unable to stop it.

As she watched, Jon broke away from the group, the papers he had given to Sansa well in hand. Behind him, three pairs of eyes watched as he made his way over to Dany his face set in a manner of a man walking to the gallows.

\- - - -

Steel eyes watched as Daenerys stormed back inside, leaving the dark figure of Jon standing rooted to the ground like the weirwood whose branches she sat in.  
  
She hadn't meant to over hear of course, not this conversation, which she was surprise hadn't happened sooner. She had been back for nearly two weeks, but kept to the shadows, using the time to observe, to study the inhabitants of Winterfell, her family, Daenerys, and the gathered allies unhindered by obligation to the same.  
  
The gift had been given, a name crossed off her list, and a girl was now free to be Arya Stark in whole, not just part. She had came out here to think on her observations, and what she had learned. The Gods Wood was a quiet place, and few ventured this far in, save for Bran. And though she knew, that he knew that she had returned, he was content to leave her in peace, and she him.  
  
So it had been a surprise when Jon had shown up, long after dinner was finish with Daenerys in tow.  
  
Jon was still an idiot. It had taken him over two months. Two month to work up the courage to tell Daenerys about the truth behind his parentage, about what Bran had seen and to show her the contract of marriage between Lyanna Stark and Rheager Targaryen that Samwell had found, along with the letter of annulment of the bonds between Rheager and Ellia Martell.  
  
The Silver Dragon had unleashed her furry upon him then. The rage, the hurt, the fear that had built up in her since she had discovered she was with child all came pouring out, the woman laying into Jon in High Valyarian, having slid into what was essentially her native tongue given she had been raised in Essos, so consumed was she by the tides of emotions.

And it had been a breath taking thing to witness.

And heartbreaking to watch.

Arya had seen the tears of both anger and hurt that had shimmered in rage darken eyes before the Queen had stormed off, more like fled. Though her retreat was not shameful. The only one who should feel shamed in this moment was the man that was still standing rooted in place below her instead of giving chase.

Idiot. Fucking. Idiot.

Those papers only proved what Arya had always suspected. That Rheager hadn't kidnapped Lyanna at all. They were not proof that Jon was their trueborn son, and not the bastard of Eddard Stark, no matter what Bran may or may not have seen in his visions.

Jon was so caught up in the truth of who his father was, had his head so far up his ass about not being a bastard, that he ignored the evidence that he was about to be a father to his own bastard.

And given all of what Daenerys had just said, and given that she said it in a language that Jon likely only understood one in every ten words of, he may never know.

Idiot.

Inwardly sighing, and seeing that Jon wasn't going to go after the clearly upset Daenerys, given that he still hadn't moved. Arya silently dropped from the branch she had been sitting on, landing near soundlessly in the snow to follow the other woman's path, leaving Jon behind without a word.

He didn't deserve her consideration, nor her services as a translator.

It took a little longer then Arya expected to finally find Daenerys. The lateness of the hour meant most of the inhabitants of Winterfell and its mighty keep had retired so there had been few witnesses to the Queen's flight through the halls. Passing unseen through the shadowed halls, but by those few Unsullied she had allowed herself to be seen by, Arya made her way to the last place anyone would look for the Targaryen woman, given that it was a place she had only recently taken to retreating to when she didn't want to be found.

And it was a good choice.

It was after all, Arya's room.

And as far as anyone knew, Arya wasn't even in Winterfell, so why would anyone go to her rooms? Let alone the Targaryen Queen.

When Arya had originally returned after giving Cersei the gift, the hour had been as late as it was now. And she had gone unseen, as she had been tired and only had wanted to fall face first into her bed. It had been a surprise for the assassin to find the ashen haired woman sound asleep on her bed when she had entered her own chambers that night. Arya had done nothing more then to tuck the covers of her bed more firmly around the then slumbering woman, and blow out the candles, choosing to find another, empty room to sleep in that night.

Arya suspected that the Queen had possibly figured her out, and privately, she was pleased that the other woman felt safe in her space even if their interactions had in all reality been rather limited beyond Arya's offers of silent comfort.

Silently, Arya opened the door to her chambers, and entered, making sure the door was latched and locked behind her. Much like the first night of her return, Daenerys was asleep on her bed. The petite woman had at least shed her boots and outer garments, leaving on her smalls and a thin pale colored cami top before she had fallen onto the bed. Unlike that night however, Daenerys' face showed evidence of her earlier heavy tears. It was clear from the furrowed silver brow, and down turned lips that her emotionally exhausted slumber was not restful. Daenerys laid on her right side, facing the door, and curled around Arya's pillows, hugging it tight to her body on top of the covers.

“ _Unless you give better hugs then this pillow, go away.”_

In the half shadows provided by the full moon through her window and the low burning fire in the hearth, she could see the dim glint of purple eyes over the top of the pillow the Queen was wrapped around. Arya hesitated, and Daenerys rolled over, until she was laying with her back to the door, leaving Arya with a choice.

The proper thing to do would be to leave, find another place to sleep for the night, and allow the Queen the free use of her room, after acting confused, as if she hadn't understood exactly what the woman had just said to her.

On the other hand, Arya has never been one to be proper. And what was proper in this case, was also unkind, and it was cowardly. And Arya had not fought so hard to free herself of the Faceless Men to be either.

Taking her hand off the door, she stepped further into the room, steel gray eyes remaining trained to the back of the dragon Queen. Quick and efficient, she stripped herself of her own layers, cloak, gloves, boots and belts and leathers and wool. Until she was left in a pair of dark cotton knee length trousers and plain gray cotton shirt, on which she loosened the neck ties for sleep.

Stripped down, Arya padded on bare feet over to the bed. Daenerys gave no reaction, other then a slight shuddering inhale of surprise and stiffening of her shoulders when Arya tugged the blankets down and out from under her.

Again, Arya stopped, though not in hesitation this time, but waiting. Daenerys proved to be perceptive, understanding that what Arya was waiting for was further consent, her consent to climb into her own bed. With a huff that sounded a little like a short laugh, the older woman reached back blindly until long pale fingers wrapped around a slender wrist, and tugged.

Arya allowed herself to fall onto the bed with an exaggerated oomph, which earned her another little huffing laugh as she righted herself and tugged sheets and blankets up over herself and Daenerys both. Leaning over, to tug the pillow from Dany's arms; - which the other woman released with only a token sound of protest – but mostly so she could see the woman's face, she was please to see that while Daenerys' face still held evidence of her emotional confrontation with Jon, there was some degree of lightness there in the tiniest of a upwards curl to the Queen's lips as Arya settled herself behind her.

“ _You'll have to let me know in the morning if I'm better then the pillow.”_ Arya teased in a whisper soft voice as she laid her head down on said, newly liberated pillow.

In front of her, the Queen gave a rather undignified snort.

“Well, that answers the question of rather you know High Valyarian I suppose.” Daenerys had had two months to consider the mystery that was Arya Stark as her silently companion and gift giver. And she had wondered if the Stark girl had understood her that night in the privy. Now she knew.

The Queen reached back blindly, and Arya met the searching hand with her own, allowing the ashen haired woman to drag her forward until her back was flushed with Arya's front from chest to hips, with the Stark woman's arm resting over her waist.

“Gods, your feet are like ice!” Arya hissed, trapping the feet in question between her own after friged toes had brushed against her shins. “I thought someone with the 'blood of the dragon' would be hot blooded'.” She teased, not upset, simply having been taken by surprise.

“Sorry.” Dany giggled, a pleasant sound given her earlier upset, letting their legs get tangled together beneath the heavy blankets. While Drogo had never complained about her cooled feet. Darrio had, but he'd complain if she wore socks to bed, or took a scorching hot bath before hand.

Arya did nothing more then grumble, though Dany could tell it was more in good nature, as the younger woman attempted to work warmth into her icy feet with her own much warmer ones, muttering something about wool socks and frost bite.

To Dany it sounded like she would be getting yet another thoughtful gift from her mysterious gift giver, and Arya was a mystery still to her. But the concern her grumbling showed did touch Dany in more then a physical way.

They would have to talk on the marrow. Knowing that Arya not only understood, but fluently spoke High Valyrian raised a great many worries in Dany. She had said a great many things that night in the privy. And she further suspected that it was not simple serendipity that brought Arya to her tonight, just when she once more needed the comfort of another person.

More then that, given that she was carrying the Stark woman's half-brother come cousin's bastard, this strange pull Dany felt towards the younger woman was highly improper, down right scandalous even. - Not that Dany herself particularly cared for Westerosie sensibilities. But she was not ignorant at how even a platonic relationship between them could be seen. -

For her part Arya simply made herself comfortable as the big spoon in this situation. The Queen was pleasantly cool to the touch beyond those bone chilling feet, and smelled pleasant, whatever soap she was using must be something from Essos, as the she-wolf could smell hints of vanilla mixed in with Daenerys own clean smell when she allowed her nose to brush the back of the woman's neck.

Absently, the hand belonging to the arm that Dany had willfully wrapped around her own waist began to stroke tender circles over the Queen's stomach. There was just the slightest swell, it wouldn't even be noticeable had the area not been firmer then the rest of Daenerys body.

The response she got was a great sigh, and the slightly smaller woman relaxing further into her, seeming to go a bit boneless under the tender ministrations.

“ _Thank You”_ Daenerys whispered, already starting to drop off into sleep in her arms.

Strangely, the words some how meant more in High Valyrian then they would have in common. And Arya simply gave a non committal hum, and a gentle nuzzle to the back of the snoozing Queen's neck.

\- - - -

 


	3. Chapter 3

**_Red Blossoms_ **   
_Part 3_

\- - - -

One of her children were dead. Her beautiful Viserion, killed and risen again by the Night's King beyond the Wall. Afterwards, after seeing the terrible might that her beautiful son with his once gleaming gold-white scales now like so much frosted ice, had wrot under the heels of the great Other, Jon had come to her, privately, and offered to bend the knee.

As if his fealty would replaced a son lost to her.

As if seeing the son of her brother kneel before her would ease the ache in her heart.

It had been his idea to take one of her dragons to the wall, and in doing so, her son was now dead, risen into a cruel twisted shade of himself. An Ice Dragon. Had it not been for the fact that Viserion's undeath gave a new strength to the enemy, Daenerys would wonder if it had all been some plan of Jon's.

To weaken her by killing her children. To lure her into a false sense of security after by kneeling. Perhaps he had meant to then to take her into his arms and comfort her while she was still reeling, mourning the death of one of her children. Only then to make his claim to the Iron Throne known and take all that she had, including the unborn babe that slept quietly in her womb.

Perhaps. But Daenerys also thought such a long game ploy was beyond Jon-Born-Jaehaerys. But there were others in his inner circle by whom such a plot could be devised.

Regardless, the death of Viserion weighed heavy on her heart, and that of her remaining winged children. She herself had barely been able to eat or sleep since his death nearly a fortnight ago. When she did sleep, it was often fitful, restless and filled with nightmares if not done within the arms of one stubborn she-wolf. The same who had taken to seeing she was served smaller portions at meals, but had small light snacks at hand throughout the day, to make sure she ate something, even if it wasn't much.

Arya was the reason why she was moving briskly along the paths carved into feet of snow that had turned the world white, with Missandrie and Grayworm hot on her heels. Runners had came to her just after the noon meal – once more, she had been served a small portion, manageable in her grief. - Arya had been spotted heading directly to the dragons, baring fresh kills, still dripping hot lifeblood in death.

Though they had talked that first morning that Dany had awoken, with her half sprawled on top of the she-wolf, legs tangled, one hand buried in the girl's dark locks, and face pressed intimately into the hollow of her swan like neck in the pre dawn hour. Neither of them had given a name to what laid between them, only an agreement that there was something there, threads that connected them, binding them and quietly building in the face of the threats from beyond the wall, the threats to the south. And the bastard in her womb.

Dany didn't know what she would do if Drogon or Rhaegal killed her.... her....companion? She didn't have a name for what Arya was to her, it was still too new yet for terms like consort or paramour or even simply partner; yet courtier or suitor felt too impersonal, though it a very real way, that is what Arya was. And despite the newness of this as of yet unnamed thing between them, Dany already knew that loosing Arya would likely ruin her, perhaps more then the death of her Sun and Stars had.

Her remaining children were nested in the ruins of a place known as Crofter's Village just inside of the Wolfwood. The village had been ravanged by House Bolton during their occupation of Winterfell, and by the Iron Born before them. Its former inhabitants had fled to other villages or hold-fasts, leaving the place an abandon ruin.

The cover provided by the ancient trees, fresh water from the spring that fed into the White Knife, and the occasional natural hot spring along with different food sources within the wood made it a ideal place for them to nest in the north.

She had sent Unsullied and Dothraki alike to keep an eye on the temporary nesting grounds of her children after Viserion's death. She wasn't going to risk servants of the Night King coming for her remaining children. Who, much like their mother were taking the death of their brother hard. And it was a good thing that she had, as she just may arrive in time to prevent either of her children from killing that stupid stupid girl who had started worming her way into Daenerys heart.

The trip was short, and dismounting their borrowed horses took only a minute, the mounts lead away to feed and water by awaiting Dothraki. There was a tension in the air that confused Dany for a moment, a sense of mysticism that she could read on the faces and in the bodies of the Dothraki and Unsullied that had awaited her arrival.

Dany scented the air, she could smell smoke, fire, roasting meat, the smell of which sent her stomach rolling. However only stray flakes of snow fell from and through the branches of the towering ever-green trees, but no ash. There was also no Arya, which meant none of her men had been able to stop the she-wolf from entering the former village where her children nested.

Her demand of the whereabouts of the she-wolf were met with silence, as if something had struck these men dumb and mute. But one did gesture to her, pointing past the treeline and towards the village as to say. 'There, she is where we do not dare to go'.

Their caution around her children was born from experience, even those she had trusted to freed her smallest children when she had chained them in the dark after Drogon had slew a child back were wary of getting too close or lingering too long. She motioned to

Missandrie and Grayworm to wait. Unwilling to risk loosing them to her mourning children as well.

But to not stop Arya, whose death would at the hands of her dragon would undo all their hard work to earn the trust of the north? To say nothing about how it would crush Daenerys herself. That she couldn't understand and wouldn't forgive if what she found beyond the treeline was ash and death.

It wasn't. It was something that stilled Daenerys heart for an infiniate moment before it begun again with a skipped beat, leaping into her throat in doing so.

Arya stood with her back to her, heavy winter cloak discarded. She had one deer carcas over a fire pit, roasting away, with another, already cooked and partly butchered sat at her feet. That would explain the smell of fire and roasting meat. Dany thought.

Leaning against the charred bare bones of what was once a house, the Queen watched, and she listen in mystified silence as Arya, who was waving about one of the hign legs from the already butchered deer before both dragons.

“ _Look, I know, I know it hurts. I know what it is to loose a sibling. But you gotta eat.”_ Arya softly spoke, in High Valyarian her voice held a smoky husk to it, like sun warmed leather, made supple with bee wax. It was different then how she sounded when she spoke in common tongue, and brought to Dany's mine memories of the warm sea air and the taste of salt and lemons, and a house with a red door.

She listened as Arya continued to coon to both dragons, approaching slowly as she spoke about the pain of loosing her father, then her mother and brother, and the good sister and unborn niece or nephew she would never get to meet. Of hearing about the deaths of her younger brothers and all those at Winterfell she had known and loved. About thinking she had lost her older sister to. Of believing that she was the only Stark left other then her bastard brother at the Wall, who was unreachable by her.

“ _In the north, we have a saying. The North Remembers. Its a promise of loyalty returned, but more then that its a promise of vengeance against those who wronged us. I got mine, when I brought down House Frey. When I killed Cersei. I had to wait years to do so. But I did, because the North Remembers.”_

Unseen by woman or dragon, Dany lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle the gasp that wanted to escape. She had known of course she had. Arya had told her the the truth, that which her family did not know. That Arya, this woman who whispered hummed northern melodies to her in the night, for she had a terrible singing voice. Who shyly gave her wool socks for her cold feet, and made sure she ate even when grief had stolen her appetite.. that this woman was also once a member of the notorious Faceless Men, had once served the House of Black and White in Bravos.

The rest of the Starks didn't know that their sister was a assassin, recently free from the chains of service. That by her hand justice was served onto the Freys, in the very feast hall where her mother and brother, along with their banner men had been slain.

The Northern Lords gave Jon the credit, when the man had had nothing to do with it. The sung his praises when it was Arya who had stained her hands and darkened her soul. To survive, for justice, for vengeance.

Thinking about it made her angry. At Jon, at Sansa, at Bran. Each one had thought they held the monopoly on suffering. Yet none asked Arya for details on how one lone girl had survived in a war torn continent, or how she had managed to sail across the Narrow Sea with nothing but the clothes on her back and sword on her hip.

There was a small part of her, that sounded like Tyrion that said she should be weary, that she should be cautious and even afraid of the she-wolf. It had whispered to her every dark and terrible thing Arya was clearly capable of doing to her, to those she cared about ever since Arya told her the truth. But watching her now, watching her lay a gentle hand on Rhaegal's green snout, fingers trailing over bronze markings even as Drogon jealously shuffled closer, Dany knew she could trust the she-wolf. With her life, possibly her heart even.

“ _But you are not of the north. You are fire and blood made flesh. Fire and Blood are your mother's words and Fire and Blood you shall have. You will need your strength for both. You need to be strong for your mother, and strong for your brother, and strong for the unborn human sibling yet born, who may, some day ride you, and their children after them. For dragons live a very long time. But first, you need to eat.”_

It seemed, to Dany that the promise of vengeance for their lost brother, the promise that the idea that one day, one of them would fly her child, and his or her children woke something with both of her dragons, who shook their heads like waking from a slumber, before Drogon snatched the deer leg right from Arya's hand, just missing catching the Stark girl's fingers much to the dark haired woman's laughing delight.

Rhaegal not to be out done slithered around Arya, to snap his jaws on the still deer still on the roasting spit over the fire. Both dragons seeming to delight in Arya's indigent shout of 'Hey! Save some for me!' As the both quickly went about devouring the rest of the offerings the lone wolf had brought them.

Daenerys simply watched, a small smile on her lips as her right hand came down to rest over the slight swell of her lower abdomen.

\- - - -

They were here.

The Nights Watch had fallen and now the Night King and his undead army were south of the Wall. Daenerys, Jon and Sansa had taken the allied armies and gone to face the Night King and set their traps. Leaving Arya the Stark in Winterfell, for Bran refused the title and responsibility, retreating to sit among the roots of the weirwood tree.

Arya hadn't wanted the Queen to go, nor had Missandrie, or Tyrion or Grayworm. All of whom also knew of the Queen's condition. Unlike them however, she understood that Daenerys could not, would not be persuaded from her chosen path. So she had kissed her sweetly, and kissed her passionately, and held her close. Hoping that her own warmth would sink into the Targaryen woman's bones, that what had been brewing between them would be enough to give the mother of dragons a reason to come back, health and hale.

For a Three-Eyed-Raven with one and a thousand eyes Bran had been just as blind as Jon, and didn't see them coming until it was too late.

On the fourth day, shortly after the noon meal the world went dark. And then the storm came. And above the howling winds and the blinding snow, she had heard it.

_Three Horn Blast._

Far away to the north it came. From deep within the Wolfwood. Her idea, an early warning system. Just in case she had reasoned when she asked Jon to spare the men.

Jon had been a fool, he had ignored reason, ignored Daenerys and Sansa, and Tyrion and her and all of his other advisers who told him to not leave Winterfell with only a token force. But the idiot did so anyways. Daenerys had left some of her forces behind, not many. But more then Jon had thought to.

She ordered men to mount horses, to spread the pitch and tar and other traps she had come up with. To stay the threat from reaching the walls, hopefully long enough for help to arrive.

_Three Horn Blast._

Closer now. That call from Tumbledown Tower, the third half croaked off, ending early. She knew that man was dead, and risen again, one more solider for the enemy. The those brave souls who had volunteered to be the far watchers had known it was a suicide posting. And still they had gone, with black humor, and knowledge at the children, partners, siblings that were relying on their sacrifice.

Idiots, fucking idiots. The believed in visions and prophecies, and had been lead astray. They were here, they where here because the people of the north had come to seek shelter here. Had come for the promise of protection from the King in the North whom they had raised up.

They would be slaughtered, turned undead, and sent upon their kinsmen, who would hesitate at seeing familiar faces among the Night King's horde.

Stupid, fucking, idiots. One and a Thousand Eyes and not one of them saw the obvious path. Arya had known, but she had been a fool, believing in her brother-cousin, in her younger brother, her sister, in her... in The Queen. And had chosen not to attend the council meetings.

She had sent the Maester to send a Raven to Jon and Daenerys each. And then to Sansa if there was time. She ordered every hearth and torch and brazier lit, she had men built fires in every open space within the keep and every door and ever gate barred shut, every window shuttered and nailed closed.

And every person who could draw a bow or throw a spear up on the wall. Age or gender be damned. Guards and cooks and washer women, stable boys and cobbler daughters. Northerner, Southerner, Wildling, Dothraki, Unsullied, Former Slave. Only the very young, or the very old were sent inside to the hopeful safety of the keep, given orders to bar the doors shut.

_Three Horn Blast._ That one was from one of the towers on the inner north wall, which she stood on.

They were here.

The storm brought with it a deep chill, it slipped through gaps and between folds and found ever chink in armor and leather and fur to slither down the spine and freeze the heart. The wind whispered promises of death, of darkness, of unending servitude. Did the storm bring the Walkers and the cold, or did the Walkers bring the cold and the storm with them?

She could see them now, burning blue eyes, thousands of them behind the flurry of snow as the storm began to die and the visibility improved, there just beyond the light, on the edge of shadow and darkness.

She remembered then the chilling words of Old Nan.

“ _ **Fear is for winter when the snow fall a hundred feet deep”**_

“Hold!” She called, pitching her voice far and above the howl of the wind, over the nervous, fearful shuffle of a hundred feet, large and small that stood on either side of her. Men and women

“ _ **Fear is for the Long Night, when the sun hides for years.”**_

“Hold!” She called again. Waiting until the right moment, waiting until they were close enough.

“ _ **And Children are born and live and die.. all in darkness”**_

“Light!” She called, a hundred hands dripping a hundred arrows into braziers and torches. These were normal tipped arrows. While Jon had mined a lot of dragonglass. And Daenerys had kept up the mining operations and shipments after she had arrived with Jon at Winterfell. Arya still wanted to be conservative with her use of it.

She had no idea how long they would have to hold out until help arrived. - If help arrived.

“ _ **That is the time for fear. When the White Walkers come”**_

The wind died, and in the stillness of the moment Arya felt like she was one and a thousand eyes. That she could feel the heartbeat of every person in Winterfell, hear every breath, every whimper every child's cry.

“ _ **What do you say to the god of death?”**_ A half forgotten memory of her water dance master whispered in her ear.

The front line had just reached the first check point, just inside arrow range. “Draw!” She called, and in the absence of wind, of the sound of nature and life, she could hear the creak of hundreds of bow strings being pulled taunt.

_'Not today.'_

“Loose!” She cried, releasing her own arrow with a twang, a sound echoed on both sides of her and on down the line the stretched three deep along the north wall.

In the darkness of the false night she tracked the firy trail of the arrows flight, until the they wetly smacked into the ground, or into the first few front lines of Others. The ground in which she had soaked with pitch and tar and oil. And though the storm had brought with it fresh snow it didn't matter.

It caught, and with a dull woosh a wall of flame that stretched hundreds of feet across roared to life, and caught in the middle the Others let out inhuman screams as the crumbled into dust and ash. Beyond the flames she could see the mounted commanders of the undead, with their queer blue blades stopping to take in this first defense.

“Load the trebuchets! When history tells of this day, I want them to call it a Field of Fire with out Dragons!” Her words brought up a cheer, as the people rushed to load siege weapons, normally aimed at walls, instead of from or within them with caskets that would explode fiery death upon impact or balls of pitch covered hay that would roll firy death into the ranks of the undead.

There came a otherworldly roar just then. And from the clouds swooped down the shimmering blue-white Viserion. The sight of the undead dragon, and its rider caused a cry of fear to rise up among the Winterfell ranks.

Steel gray eyes met the cold burning blue eyes of the Night King despite the distance. And for a moment, the world stopped, narrowed down to only him and her. And then Viserion pulled up, turning over Winterfell, the Night King clearly trying to gauge their defenses.

When he finally turned to head back behind the enemy lines, Arya realized that the Night King had trouble controlling Daenerys son. That even in undeath, Viserion had not been totally subdued. It had taken the Night King a long time to turn his new pet, and though she could tell he had given the command, no fire had reigned down upon them.

So long as the Night King could not fully control Viserion, they had a chance.

By the Old Gods, they might just survive this.

\- - - -

It looked like a war zone. It was a war zone. Dany thought as she circled Winterfell from above. Half of the northern outer wall had crumbled. One north towers laid in ruins, the other was so encased in ice it would take years for it to be chipped away. The draw bridge on the northern side laid in shattered charred bits in the moat, the gate, a massive thing made of ironbark barely hung on its hinges, though the portcullis still remained closed and intact.

The smoke Daenerys had spotted earlier had been from a number of small fires, funeral priers most like. As well as the still smoldering field just north of Winterfell. That had amazed her. From the air, great swaths of ice and snow had been melted away so totally that it left blacken grass and baked earth behind. Even from above she could still see that the land smolders, smoking hot.

It reminded her of the aftermath when she had set Drogon against the Lannister forces in the Reach. But it was impossible. Drogon and Rhaegal both had been with her. And from all accounts, her lost son now breathed burning ice, not scorching flame.

Whatever might remained of the Others that had besieged Winterfell, they were ash and dust now, or have retreated.

When the raven had arrived two days ago, she had nearly taken Drogon and flown off. It had taken Tyrion and Grayworm and Missandrie hours to talk her down out of her fool plan to fly off into the unknown.

It had taken longer still, too long in Dany's opinion for the so called King in the North to decide to split their forces. And only after she had ripped into him and Sansa both for even considering to abandon their people, their younger siblings.

Gods, Arya. Was Arya even alive. Daenerys knew they had taken to many fighting men from the seat of power. She had left all she had dared, all she could, not wanting the Northern lords to think she was using the war against the White Walkers as chance to secure Winterfell for herself and take the younger Stark children for hostages.

She couldn't give a damn about Winterfell itself. It was just a collection of stone and wood. It could be rebuilt. But the people there..the elderly, the children, the frail, those who counted on the so called King Snow and Lady Sansa for protection? Those she cared about.

And of the younger Starks, she only wanted one. And not as her hostage... Although... No, now was not the time for those sort of thoughts.

It had taken nearly a week, even after splitting their forces as much as they dared it had taken them nearly a week through a sudden snow storm that prevented even Drogon from flying to make it back. Once the storm had cleared she had taken her largest child and flown on ahead, urging him faster then she had ever before.

She hadn't wanted to be to late...Spotting the smoke on the horizon had nearly stilled her heart she had feared she was, and had cursed Jon for his hesitancy. But the sound of a single horn blast, the call that a friendly had been spotted assured her that the residence of Winterfell had some how survived.

And now so too did the small figures she could see moving along the walls, patching holes, putting out fires and working to rebuild after how many days of endless battle.

She just hoped Arya was among them. Gods please let Arya be among them.

With care she brought Drogon down in the largest courtyard, the many who had been tending to the priers scattering out of the way.

“You're late”

Her feet had just barely touched the ground when she heard a voice, the voice, snarky, and strong, with a layer of bone weary exhaustion call behind her.

Daenerys turned, and... there she was.

Arya stood, shoulders square, and hair newly chopped short by someone's dagger. There were old blood stains on her outer clothes. And they were covered in mud and soot and tattered. She wore a smirk on her face, a cut on the right side that followed the line of her cheek bone that would scar. And she looked exhausted for all her bravado and snark and strength.

But she was gloriously, wondrously alive.

Throwing common sense and propriety to the wind, Dany crossed the few feet, that felt, in that moment like far to much distance, and threw her arms around the she-wolfs shoulders, releasing a half sob, half laugh as she buried her face into Arya's neck, breathing deep the scents of leather, and smoke and sweat and blood and something so uniquely Arya it made her want to weep. But more then anything feeling just under her lips the pounding heartbeat of her wild wolf.

Arya caught her, hands then arms around Daenerys waist. The rough contact made her hiss as it jolted her battered and injured body. But she simply held the Queen tighter when she attempted to jerk back at the noise, nuzzling her nose into silver hair, pressing a fluttering kiss against space behind her ear, unnoticed by those who watched.

“ _Its okay, I'm here, I'm alive.”_ The whispered words, rumbled softly into her ear, made her sob harder, the fingers of one hand coming up to tangle in the short brown strands at the back of Arya's head while her other hand held fast to Arya's shoulders.

There would be time to find out what happened, to take an accounting of all that was lost and honor the ones that had given their lives to drive back the White Walkers. But that would later, the forces that were meant to break the siege were still a half day behind at least.

And all Daenerys could think right now was.

That the gods, every and any gods that Arya was alive.

\- - - -

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

**_Red Blossoms_ **   
_Part 4_

 

\- - - -

Jon had arrived just as the sun had fallen. To a battle field clear of bodies, walls in the processed of being patched and shored up, with final rights already given to the fallen. The forces he had brought to break the siege wanted to drink and feast, for the victory at Winterfell, while not their own was the first clear blow to the forces of the Night King.

Arya wouldn't allow it. When Jon's men had tried to force the issue, when Jon himself, the fool, had risen from his place at the high table to make a toast. Arya had stood, slamming her tankard down so hard the thick clay had shattered.

The boisterous noise the forces of the Northern King had brought with them died in an instant as eyes turned to Arya. When she spoke it was not with the husky and low intimate lit that colored her voice when she laid curled around Dany. Nor was it the calm soft velvet Dany had heard her used as she soothed children and the injured.

This was cold, and cutting. Like biting winter winds given shaped. Even though the words were not directed at her, it still sent shivers down her back.  
  
“Eighty-three men, sixty-two women, and twenty-three children under the age of fourteen gave their lives over the course of a night without end. All because you, _Your Grace_ decided to leave neary a token force behind to defend these walls.”

Eyes like frost kissed steel passed over Dany's head to lock with the smokey purple eyes of Arya's brother-cousin. The look said it all. In that moment, having so recently laid to rest those she had fought beside, Arya placed the blame of each death, more so that of the twenty-three children, squarely at Jon's feet.  
“I'm sure your men are tired, and cold from their march, and I know they mean well. But my people are battle weary. We had only just finished giving last rights to those fallen before you had arrived, and there is yet more work to do after a we snatch a too few hours of rest.”

Around the hall, there were quiet mummers of agreement from those whos faces were sunken with exhaustion, made hollow by the horrors of days of endless battle. Even the children had the far stare of grim veterans in their too young faces

Arya's face never changed. Devoid of emotion, the chilling tone flat with out inflection.

' _A girl was No One'_ Arya had told her, in much the same monotonous tone the day she had spoke of her time with the Faceless Men. Daenerys could see it more clearly now, the meticulously trained, harden killer that had served the Many-Face God of death.

Jon didn't. She could see in the way he was beginning to draw himself upwards, to make himself larger, more intimidating to the slight woman on her other side.

The fool. If all the tales she knew of the Faceless Men were true, Jon would be drowning in his own blood before he could get his blade even half free of the scabbard. It may only be out of love that Arya hadn't put him in his place. He really had no clue just how dangerous the she-wolf was.   
  
“But don't worry. I'm sure that in the retelling this too will some how become your victory.”

That was a low blow, and Daenerys could see the moment it connected. The way Jon mentally scrabbled to put together the pieces and figured out what else had been accredited to him, a victory not of his own. - House Frey -

The battle weary defenders of Winterfell had risen as Arya had moved down the center of the hall, and each of them, down to every last man, woman and child who had fought for nearly a week followed her out into the winter night.

That had been three days ago.

The first day Dany had woken to a cold bed, but there were small things, like the rumbled sheets, or the tattered clothing the corner that told her that Arya had at least laid with her for a while after she had fallen asleep.

She had found her wolf hauling rock, or helping hoist new timber. Directing the people of Winterfell in rebuilding the keeps defenses for the next possible attack. In the morning light, the damage was greater then she had first thought. There were clear signs that the Others had managed to come over or through the walls.

And not a single defender had escape without injury. Here a man worked chistle and hammer and saw to prep new timber as he stood carefully balanced on one leg, for the other was missing.

There a boy all of ten with bandages over one eye, a tail end of what would be a wicked scar peeking from below the white cloth carried a basket of linens. A woman with a missing arm stood at a simmering pot of stew in the center of the yard, a girl of four and ten limbs intact with bandages peeking out from under her shirt carried pitchers of water around to the different workers.

She knew that Arya bore more then just the scar on her cheek. She had had bandages on her legs, and her arms. Her upper torso had been wrapped to stabilize her ribs. Her back was a patch work of bruises. Her right side would bear a scar from where a sword had managed to split her armor. Left shoulder from a lucky arrow, just inches from her heart.

Each defender worked without complaint, they never grumbled, never whined, never cried out when the work they did pained them or tore stitches. They grimly bore it until the task was finished then would get their wounds restitched or bandaged and get back to it.   
  
Men with missing limbs, women with bandages, children with limping steps walked the walls, eyes turned northwards, fingers poised on bows, and arrow shafts, on horns.

Dany knew that the most grievous of the injured rested in a makeshift infirmary. People with broken backs, and hips. Major burns from both fire and ice. And other injuries, injuries that they yet may die from.

It was incredible, it was grim and inspiring. And Daenerys would not stand ideally by as they did all the work when she had two good hands and two good legs. Many of her men had given their lives for these people, she knew. Arya had told her of their bravery, their unflinching courage, their sacrifice that gave her a shot at the Night King himself, letting her sink a dragonglass tipped arrow into his undead flesh before he had turned craven and flown away on her lost son.

So Daenerys went to work. There wasn't much she could do, or rather allowed to do once Arya had spotted that she had joined in. But she could still wash linen for new bandages and help change bedding. She could still help with the cooking, and carry refreshments to those who did the heaviest of work. She could still help change bandages, and clean wounds. And though her stitches weren't pretty, she could even restitch those who needed it.

The second day, some of the forces meant to reinforce Winterfell had finally pitched in after Arya, in a fit of exhausted anger had verbally torn a group of them who had with casual indifference snatched a pitcher of mead meant for workers on a short meal break from the hands... hand, she only had one arm, of a girl of six an ten, with a slap on the ass and some lewd comment.

It had been a thing to witness. In one moment, Arya had been pounding away at the forge where she had been helping at a time, stripped down and sweating despite the winter chill. The next one man was on the ground, clenching at his broken nose, a second quick to join him after Arya had done something that had dislocated his shoulder.

And she growled, like rumbling thunder, an on coming storm flashing in her sharp steel colored eyes, as she turned to the other two men all flashing teeth and steel sharp words that struck true. Men, who had backed up fearfully when faced with the enraged wolf, before they had grabbed their fallen comrades and turned tail.

But an hour later, the quartet, along with two dozen other able bodied and fresh men had shown up, bending knee with chins to chest as they asked how they may be a service.

At first things had been awkward, people shying away when she came to help, silent, meek. But over the course of three days, they grew used Dany, opening slowly to the Dragon Queen. And in that openest she learned what Arya hadn't told her.

The lives she had saved personally, the blows she had blocked, or outright taken for others. The grim order she had gave to quick put any person who fell into the bon fires that burned hot and bright in the center of the yards, least they turned to Others.

The gift of mercy she gave to the dying, with a sleek kiss of her dragonbone dagger, leaving driving dragonglass tipped arrows into their chest in the split moment between death and undeath as the Night King tried to rise their fallen as they continue to defend the wall.

Of Arya's bold plans, and clever defenses. Of the field of fire she had created with what was on hand. And how she had covered her precious needle in tar and pitch and lit it ablaze time and time again until the sword had turned to slag in her hand.

They talked about how the sun had vanished and night had come at noon. That the night had lasted until the morning of the day she herself had arrived. About the storm and the cold, and the monstrous beasts that the White Walkers commanded. bears and giants and mammoths that hammered the gates and giant spiders that had tried crawling over the walls. Things they all thought of as tales, ending up being very very real.

And then when it was all over, how Arya, had gone right to work, cutting through the moment of victory as the shattered Others turned tail to follow the vanishing form of the Night King, orders to burn the dead, to see to the injured and to the dying. And how Arya had seen to the dying herself, kneeling at their sides, sliding a blade between ribs as she offered words of comfort, words of home words of prayer and honor. And doing it as blood ran from her own injuries, until her knees buckled under the weight of her exhaustion and blood loss.

There was an awe there, a deep profound respect, love and admiration born in the fires of battle, of seeing a leader rise to meet impossible odds, who gave of her own body, her own blood and sweat and tears. The sort that would last a lifetime and beyond.

Daenerys knew she or even Jon could slay the Night King with their own hand. But it would be Arya, and this nightmare that these people would tell their children, and their children's children. Because the North Remembers, and they would remember this nightmare and the hero who savaged the Night King and his army in Fire and Blood and gifted mercy to the fallen. And those where the words said to her, where said of Arya. Over and over again.

The North Remembers and Fire and Blood.

In those three days, each ending with her and Arya falling into bed, boneless and aching with the days work. Daenerys had been displeased to note not once had she seen Jon, the supposed King of these battle weary people. Not once had she seen him in the yard hoisting timber, or laying mortar, or hauling away rubble. Not once had she spotted his dark head bowed over those too injured to work or walk the walls, eyes alert and trained to the north.

Not once.

And she was not the only one that noticed. While these harden people of the north had begun to bow to her, mummers of 'Your grace' and 'my queen' on their lips. So too had she heard the rumble of malcontent towards the unseen King in the North, who had arrived to late for battle, but must feel as if manual labor was beneath him now that he had been risen up as King.

“Jon is an idiot” Arya had mumbled into her pillow when Dany had mentioned it after they both had washed away the days sweat and changed for bed. This time they were in Daenerys room, a rarity since they had begun to explore what lays between them.

“The idiot is brooding. Apparently the Night King had turned his forces back north to regather their strength instead of continuing south. - It renders Jon's plans null so hes brooding.”

The moment Dany had set down, reclining against her pillow but not yet laying down, Arya had rolled over, until she laid with her head in Dany's lap, face nuzzling against the cloth covered swell of her stomach.

It was more noticeable now, and getting difficult to hide no matter how many layers of clothes she wore. She knew the people, those she had spent the last three days working side by side with had noticed, as she had often found herself pushed into a chair, or given lighter burdens to carry. Though her help had never been turned away.

She had even felt the first quickening, which grew more active in the quiet moments when she and Arya curled against each other. She had teased her wolf just last night that the child already knew the sound of her voice, to which Arya had responded by slipping down her body, until her face was level with the swell, and began speaking soft and low in high valyarian, telling what Dany knew to be a bed time tale that Arya must have been told a hundred times in her youth. This one about Sir Duncan the Tall, and his squire Egg

The next, Arya weaved a tail of Bran the Builder, who had raised the great Wall of ice and snow far in the north in common tongue. Dany got the impression as she read the reports from Tyrion and Missandrei and Grayworm, that Arya would likely switch back and forth, one night telling the tale of a Targaryen in high valyrian, the next a Stark in common tongue, for as many nights as she was allowed to. This night, and all the nights to come, her heart whispered as she ran her fingers through Arya's short brown locks, the smooth candance of Arya's voice a soothing balm to the soul after the day of hard work.

It wasn't until the morning of the fifth day did Jon come down to the great hall and break his fast. As Arya said, he had been brooding. That much was obvious the way he darkly glowered at the assembled hall of laughing men and women, who now that the dead had been given last rights, and the worse of the damage that had been wot had been patched, mended and repaired, where beginning to regain some of that hearty northern spirit despite their grievous injuries.

“Our forces will be here on the marrow. Bran seems to believe that the Night King aims to take another shot at Winterfell, still smarting from his defeat here.”

There was a upturn of Jon's lips, something about his tone that made her think he was taking pride in the White Walker's wounds as if he had been the one to inflict them. And why wouldn't he let himself feel that way, he had done nothing to stop the Northern lords from giving him credit for the fall of House Frey. Dany wondered just what her suppose nephew had been telling the Westerosie Lords about what happened here. Would their allied forces arrive, believing that this had been Jon's victory, though he had arrived long after it had ended?

The thought soured her stomach, and Dany felt the little one. - Rabbit, Arya had called him or her, for how the child liked to kick at all hours – give a roll as if in agreement with her.

“I'll be sure to ask Arya to join the war council this time. Given her success with defending Winterfell and defeating the Night King with relatively few losses despite the lack of a real fighting force. I'd like to see what she comes up with when she has an army to deploy.”

She watched with smug satisfaction as the prideful smirk dropped from his face, and his pale purple eyes darken “I'm sure that wont be necessary.”

Her own eyes harden. “To be frank King _Snow_. Between you and her, she is the only one who has successfully _defeated_ the White Walkers in mass. Even managing to injure the Night King himself.” She could see the moment when her insults struck. And there! Yes, now she could believe Jon's claims that he was her nephew, she could see that her pointed remarks had stirred the dragon inside of him.

Petty, prideful. Arya wasn't wrong when she had said he had been brooding. But she hadn't been totally correct about why. Jealousy was an ugly emotion, and in Jon it was more so.

“I will be asking her to join the war council. Rather thats a genreal invitation, or a personal invitation remains to be seen.”

\- - - -

The war council was held off once the rest of the allied forces arrived. Knowing that Night King planned to attack Winterfell once more after such a humiliating defeat. It was more important that they made Winterfell as strong as possible before such an attack came.

What she had the rest of the defenders of Winterfell had managed to accomplish was nothing more then putting a bandage of a gaping wound. It had been a buy-us-time patch job. Good enough to hold back the tide of the enemy long enough for the defenders to arm and ready themselves. But not much else.

So when the allied forces set to work in properly repairing Winterfell and preparing defenses, Arya took a lead role. If the join small councils wanted to bicker and dither over the hows and whys. Let them, by the time Jon had settled on the best course of action, she will have had gotten most of the defenses made and traps prepared for deployment.

Three more times the council was delayed, Arya only finding out after wasting an hour in the great hall, waiting for the others who would never come. The third time, Dany had found her before she had even made it, quickly leading her back outside where Jon was trying to do all of her hard work.

That fucking idiot.

Arya only knew about the impending war council because Daenerys had asked her to attend. There were other meetings of course. And the she-wolf knew that every time Jon had tired to turn them into war councils, Daenerys, or one of her advisers, who had quickly caught onto the game, had redirected the conversation.

Despite her misgivings about Tyrion from the start. Arya liked all of Dany's advisers. The Imp's quick wit and crass humor. Varys keen eye and dry snark, the man had seen her for what she was very quickly, and offered her the traditional bravosie greeting. Grayworms stoic but honorable deminer. And Missandrie's wise-beyond-her-years council and good nature teasing. She also though the translator and the Unsullie commander made a lovely couple and had told them as much.

Even the old Lord Commander had grown on her, the man being one of the few Westerosies who would train with her. His advanced aged may have slowed him, but his mind was still sharp, and the old knight had no problems fighting dirty. - One did not live as long as he by being foolishly honorable in combat after all.

All of the Queen's small council knew of her relationship with Daenerys. That they hadn't put a name to it yet mattered little to them. Even The old Knight, for all he was devot to the Faith of the Seven, seem to support the bond that had grown between wolf and dragon.

Neither Jon nor Sansa had said anything about the war council to her. And under normal circumstances she wouldn't have cared. She spied on all those meetings anyways, and the ones she didn't, she got the by blows from either Dany, or Tyrion or Varys.

But these were not normal circumstances. And in the situation they faced Arya was the only one with actual, practical experience with defending against, and defeating the White Walkers. In was critical that she was an active part and member of the war council now. And neither Jon, nor Sansa, nor Bran, ,nor any member of Jon's own small council – such as it was- came to her about the meeting.

If anything, it was as if they were doing what they could to keep her away.

She was mid hammer swing when one of Varys little birds -She really should tell him he should call his northern child informants little pups, for they were a scrappy lot- came running up to her. The kid, perhaps six, too young to fight, but Arya had used many of those two small to hold a weapon as runners during that endless night. - sketched a bow, as Arya lowered finished her swing and set the hammer aside.

“Rodrick, what wolf song do you have for me today?” She teased, bringing a toothy smile to the boy's face.

“Web spinner saids th' fool has called the w'or meetin'. 'Spinner saids ta 'ell th' gray she-wolf ta h'ery”

Reaching to the remains of her lunch, Arya snatched the honey bun she had been saving for later, and handed it to the boy who gave a happy dance, hugged her leg and raced off, the sticky bun already half shoved into his mouth.

Cursing, Arya set out at a hurried clip, pausing only for a few minutes to freshen up. She had no intention of walking into a room of high lords and ladies looking as if she had been caught off guard by the timing of this meeting.

She wasn't a fool. She knew Jon didn't want her apart of the council. His damn pride was smarting. After the initial joy of their reunion, the gulf time and experience had rent between them had grown obvious, and had only widen Winter grew colder, the nights longer, and the threat of the Others' loomed larger.

What might have remained of their tight-knit relationship, Arya may have severed the day he had cornered her and questioned her about her friendship with Daenerys. It had been after he had revealed to the Queen his origins. And Arya had deduced he was probing her, trying to gadge rather or not she would support his claim to the throne over her new 'friend' without telling her who his true parents were. More then that, Jon reeked of jealousy. Literally, he smelt of aggression and agitation. He didn't like that she was so close to his aunt. Closer then he was, though he had unknowingly -still- fathered a child with her.

“ _Rheager Targaryen may have sired you. But father raised you. You are as much the son of Eddard Stark as I or Robb. If that means so little to you that you would claim the name Jaehearys Targaryen. Then I would sooner banish you then allow you to further be a stain upon_ _ **my**_ _Father's honor. And when you are gone from this world, I will deny your bones admittance into the crypt to rest beside your mother. The North will not suffer a Targaryen on the Throne of Winter.”_

Such a banishment was a grave and serious matter. By modern practices, she didn't actually hold the right to do so, with Bran renouncing his claim to Winterfell, by right, Sansa, as father's eldest true-born child could only enact such a complete banishment.

Jon would ceased to exist, his name would be stricken from all records of House Stark, and his name would be taboo for at least three generations, and then only spoken as a hushed warning to children so complete and total would his disownment be. Even if he managed to usurp his aunt, and take the Iron Throne for himself – assuming they all survived the Winter- he would never be allowed to set foot in the North again. - Nor perhaps would his children depending on how his banishment was worded.

But there was an ancient prescient for it. The memory echoed in her blood, in the blood of the first men. For there was no living records of such a total banishment taking place, because once done, that person truly no longer existed, so even the record of their banishment was not kept.

Her words that day had stun him. Jon could read she would keep her word to do in her eyes that day. In that moment. She suspected she had done irreversible damage to the bond between her and the man that had once been her brother. And perhaps, even her sister, for she suspected Jon had told Sansa of her threat, as Sansa had grown colder to her from then on, shutting her out.

Bran too. But Bran had been growing colder as each day passed. Arya thinks something about what she was doing was messing with his visions. More then once she had caught the whispered conversation between him and Jon, or him, Jon and Sansa. Or him and many of Jon's inner circle of which she had no part.

She never caught all of it, only parts. But enough to get a picture. Jon was supposed to be the hero of this tale, a promised prince who would end the Long Night and rise to it on the Iron Throne, and usher in a era of peace and prosperity as Jaehearys Jon Targaryen, Son of Ice and Fire.

But Bran's visions kept changing. Supposingly because of her. And while the crippled Stark was still sure that the Night King could be, would be defeated, he wasn't so sure Jon would ascend to the Iron Throne. She could only imagine what Sansa's part in Bran's Utopian world was. Perhaps she was meant to end up Queen, living under the summer sun as she always dreamed of.

Given the distance her last remaining blood family had kept from her since her when she first arrived. Arya wondered if she was originally meant to die in Bran's visions, and her continued existence was changing things.

All the more reason for her to fight harder then. If Bran's perfect future relied on her death, then he would simply have to settle for the next best thing. She had no intention of being fate's bitch just to put Jon on the thrice damn Iron Throne.

Arya could hear raised voices coming from behind the closed doors of what had become the war room. It was a converted bed chamber on the first of the family wing. The location was a convinces for all members of the two small councils. And being the first floor, it didn't compromise the security of the second and third, where said members, along with the two royals slept.

The was a Northern Guard and a Unsullied at the door. Another lay over compromise from early in the beginning of this alliance. And a Martell and a Lannister solider standing on either side of the tall a little further away. - Ah, Ellaria Sand and her daughter must have made it back to Dorne after she had freed them. She was glad that the Sand Snake had such a high resistance to the poison she had been given, she hadn't been sure she had gotten the girl the antidote on time.

Arya made a mental note to make sure the Dornish soldiers were properly outfitted against the cold. Northmen and Dornishmen were opposite sides of a coin, And one did not tend to fare will in the homeland of the other. Hypothermia and frostbite were very real concerns for the Dornish who had come north. And there were enough threats to face without adding the cold and chill on top of it.

As she drew closer, she could stark making out the words. It sounded like the game was up, and someone on Jon's council had notice that Daenerys is with child, moving into her fifth month in fact by Arya's estimation. Her money was on Davos having been the one to bring attention to Dany's swelling stomach.

As she came upon the door, the Unsullie, who had been expecting her made to open the door, but the Northerner moved in front of it, baring her from entering.

“By orders of King Jon you are not a-allowed to-to pass.” The guard delivered, the words sounded practice, as if he had been saying them a hundred times in his head in preparation for her appearance. Yet he still stuttered nervously in the end.

She eyed the guard carefully, even as she held up a hand to stay the Unsullie who had been preparing to force the issue for her. The Northern man was barely that. Caught somewhere between boyhood and manhood, five and ten if that. And green as summer grass.

“You are of the North correct?” She inquired, one ear trained on the conversation behind the door, the rest of her attention on the boy before her. “Whats your name?”

“Y-yes My Lady. William of Barrowton, tho my friends call me Willie”  
  
“Ah. In service to House Dustin then. House Dustin has long been loyal to House Stark. And I am glad to see even the most humble of their men take that very seriously.”

Beneath his helm, the lad blushed, bowing his head at her words “Th-Thank you my lady.”

“William” She said, the enjoying the way the lad straighten, puffing up at being addressed by his full name by a Lady. “I was invited to this war council by Queen Daenerys as one of her advisers. Is it normal for King Jon to order his guards to bar the door to her advisers?” She kept her words honey sweet. But knew she was running out of time, the shock was beginning to wear off in the room beyond, and questions would be asked next.

“N-No my Lady. But---”  
  
“I know, I'm a bit late. I'm afraid I was helping with repairs and lost track of time.” When the boy still showed signs of not being swayed, Arya finally dropped the act.   
  
“William. I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, true-born daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. You will stand aside.” Her words held the bite of command, and that finally got the lad moving. He bowed low, apologizes falling from his lips so quickly she could scarcely make out a word as he finally stepped out from in front of the door.

“Thank you William. I will remember to write Lady Dustin about your dedication.” Straightening Arya gave a nod to the Unsullied who proceeded to open the door for her.

She would remember. William of Barrowton was a good lad. And it was was not fault of his that her relationship with her cousin and siblings was strain as it was. It did take a goodly degree of courage to stand up before a member of a great house and deny them entrance into a room. More so when you did so in their own home. Lady Dustin should know that such courage existed within her subjects so that it could be further nurtured and that loyalty rewarded.

Her enterance was barely noted, all eyes were turned on Daenerys from the assembled join council stood around the war table. All but Bran, who was neither standing because he couldn't, and whos eyes glared at her as she moved across the open space, grabbing a cushioned chair, with out a hitch in her step. Perhaps he didn't like what he was seeing in his visions again, or maybe being crippled simply left him constantly constipated. She didn't care at this point.

“Whose the father Daenerys.” The words were said through clenched teeth by Jon, who didn't seem all to happy to see her either when Daenerys had clearly been refusing to name the father of her unborn child.

Arya, slid up beside Dany then, placing her hand at the small of the Queen's back as she set the chair down behind the ashen haired woman. It was the most intimate touch they had shared in public, other then that very passionate embrace when Dany had arrived after the siege, and the first in front of members of her family and their inner circle.

Her touch, light as it was, brought purple eyes to her, the pair sharing a smile only within the gaze as Dany put her hand in the one that Arya offered, letting her wolf help her get seated.

“Her Grace pulled a Mormont, there is no father.” Arya answered, deadpanned, just for the pleasure of seeing Jon further grind his teeth. From his side of the table, Arya was getting glares from all three of her blood family. Not from Davos though, the former smuggler seemed to be considering her and Dany, as parts and a whole. Arya might have smiled if the situation wasn't so serious. She really did like the old man.

“Be serious Arya. That could be m---”

“Its not.” Dany cut in, her voice sharp, overriding Jon's attempt to claim the child as his. It was, but no one on Jon's side knew it for truth. Suspected maybe. Guessed, perhaps. But they didn't know. Not for sure. Dany glanced up at her, and once again the shared a long look. There was a question there in those purple eyes, one she answered with the barest up tick of her lips, and by tangling the fingers of their still joined hands together.

“Arya is the father.”

\- - - -


	5. Chapter 5

 

**_Red Blossoms_ **   
_Part 5_

 

\- - - -

The meeting did not last long after she had declared Arya the father of her child. At least it hadn't lasted long for the so called Stark siblings. Jon had stormed out, with Lady Sansa hot on his heels, with Bran following behind.

Truthfully, Daenerys had expected more of a fight. But she was thankful that she wasn't going to have to spend the next how many hours defending herself and Arya.

Her wolf had remained unmoved by her siblings departure, unflinching at the slam of the door and the fading echo of Jon's temper in the silence that followed.

“Well...its... unconventional. And I cant say I understand. But I suppose... congratulations are in order.”

Ser Davos' words, awkward but sincere help bleed the remaining tension in the room. And after a round of further, if awkward well wishes from Lady Brienne and the free-man Tormund, and the smirking Ellira Sand, the meeting turned to what it was originally intended for.

War with the White Walkers.

Daenerys had been content to let Arya take control of the meeting, leaning back in the chair the other woman had grabbed for her, their fingers still tangled together, while Arya would gesture, or point with her free hand.

Watching Arya fix her attention to each adviser, eyes and ears both intent on whomever spoke, weighing each suggestion, each tactic carefully in between sharing her own experiences and trail and error... it was fascinating to watch her work. And Dany could see the way Jon's three advisers were being won over.

Her own mind was caught up in the possible consequences of her decision to name Arya the father of her unborn child. Granted, this was a small council war meeting, so it wasn't as if she had announced it to the whole of the Seven Kingdoms.

By the end of of the meeting, Daenerys was left with the impression that Jon would be hard pressed to deviate from the defensive plans Arya had laid out, and in truth had already been enacting while Jon had attempted to undermined her work, while keeping her from attending any War Council or other meeting.

Arya had opted to remain behind, in order to talk to the advisers of her cousin and sister, their parting may have appeared chastised, a simple, if lingering hug, to those same advisers, but Dany hadn't been able to help grazing her teeth teasingly down the side of the wolf's neck, delighting in the way she shivered, and the way those gray eyes had darkened when they had pulled back.

Jon had been waiting for her in her room. She imagine he had used one of the servant passages to get passed the Unsullied that stood guard at her door. The moment he had entered he had shut and locked the door, putting himself between it and her.

She didn't turned to face him, merely heading to the small table where she had shared many intimate dinners with Arya, or other members of her inner circle over the last few months to pour herself a cup of tea – still warm, how did Arya do that?

This ambush wasn't a surprise. Nor was his frank breach in protocol and disregard for her privacy. She let him stew in his brooding silence. She would not be the first one to break it after she had spent months trying to talk to him. Dany had brought the cup she had poured to her lips, and paused, hearing the shallow, but sharp in the silence intake of breath as she had done so.

It was still _warm_. Not hot. Arya had always made sure she had fresh _hot_ tea. Even when she had been away in the south, the tea has been hot, as if the kettle had just been taken off the fire a few minutes prior. This was merely warm, not even a single curl of steam rising from the murky liquid.

The Queen took a tiny sniff, her nose had become more sensitive now that she was with child. An earthy aroma, like cloves, with notes of citrus greeted her. Not peppermint, or ginger. Both kinds of tea she still drank, though her morning sickness had passed. She simply enjoyed them, much the way she still enjoyed the ginger candies, as Arya enjoyed the ones of peppermint.

She slowly lowered the cup, setting it delicately on the table, as she folded her hands before her, over the swell of her stomach. Arya was not the one that had this delivered, nor would was it anyone within her inner circle. She doubted too, that it was even delivered by the same house hold staff that had served her – no doubt vetted by Arya herself – so faithfully and discreetly these last five months.

“Daenerys...I--”  
  
“I did try to tell you. More then once in fact once I had it confirmed by the Maester here. Sleeping with you was a mistake. But even still I thought you had the right to know. “ She still didn't turn to face him, the sight of him would only wake the dragon as her brother had been found of saying.

“However when you finally decided to speak to me, it was to shove papers in my hands, sprouting about how you are the rightful King of Westeros. I had decided then, even before Arya and I had started exploring our connection; that you would have no claim on my child, much as you have no claim on the Throne. No no-”

Dany pushed on, she didn't even have to see Jon to know he had been about to interrupt her. He had a poor habit of audibility inhaling when he went to speak.

“You do not get to speak. In fact, Id rather you didn't speak to me at all if it doesn't pertain to the pressing matter of the White Walkers.”  
  
She wouldn't tell him about how Arya had taken command of the War Council. That the she-wolf wasn't just a wonderful partner, one willing to step-up with _all_ her children. She was also a more the fair and capable leader, on and off the battlefield.

And for once, Daenerys knew that this wasn't just her being blinded to the flaws of the one whom she had taken into her bed. But rather a fact, she saw it in the new found respect in the eyes of Jon's small council, heard it in the voices of those who had fought at Arya's side and the simple fact that Winterfell still stood was staggering testament to all of this.

She'd let him find out from his advisers. Everything else was none of his damn business.

The door rattled, the lock preventing whoever was behind it from getting it. The noise drew Jon's attention, and was what finally had Daenerys turning, clearly her nephew hadn't expected them to be disturbed. Another rattle and the door opened, revealing Arya who looked rather displeased to see Jon in her chambers, and the Unsullied guard close at her heels. She could tell the self styled King In the North wanted to know how Arya had managed to open the door when Jon had locked it himself.

“I have no time for sulking, petty, and jealous children. **Get.Out**.”

Faced with the force of both women's glares, and the daunting presence of one of her Unsullied, Jon had tucked tail then and stormed out like a pouting child, though he had tried to look dignified as he did so, the illusion was ruined in the way he shoulder-checked Arya as he went passed.

Afterwards, after she had run out of steam, after she had ranted and and shouted, vented five months of fear and frustration, tossing more then a few loose items across the room. Pillows, the tea pot, an empty drinking horn, and a few candle holders. After she had fallen into Arya's arms, a ugly sobbing mess, after she had calm down, seated on the edge of the bed, Arya's fur cloak around her shoulders for extra comfort.

Only after she had been spent did Arya put to rest the question of the tea.

It hadn't been poisoned. It wouldn't have harmed either her or Rabbit. Arya assured her as much, going as far as tasting it dipping her finger into the puddle on the floor that formed when she had picked up and throw the tea pot against the wall. It had just been normal tea, a bit overly sweet with honey and flavored with lemon. The she wolf hadn't made her feel paranoid for thinking such, hadn't even chastised her for shattering the pot.

Watching Arya wash her hands after she had picked up the signs of her lost temper, some times she wondered if she had in fact inherited her Father's madness, the same madness that had burned behind Visaerys' eyes. It scared her to consider it, what she might be capable of. And Dany asked the one question that had been nagging her in the far back of her mind because of that fear.

“Why are you with me?”

The dark haired woman across the room paused for only a moment before picking up a hand towel. Sighing, Arya leaned back against the baisin stand, her head tilted to one side as she studied her, drying her hands as she did so.

“Everyone looks at you and sees a Queen. Or a savior. Or the Mad-King's Daughter. I look at you and see the girl my father thought worth saving enough to defy a man who was both his King and Best friend. I look at you and see a woman who cares for her people, often to the detriment of herself. Who is honorable enough she wanted to tell a man whom she doesn't love that they had created a child together, even though she was afraid of what he might do. Someone who.. knows about what I am, what I've done and accepts me, blood stains hands and all. Who doesn't expect me to be anything that I'm not. Who, at the the end of the day, as in the beginning, sees me for me, not a ghost, not a lady. Just.. Arya. ”

Dany didn't know how Eddard could have possibly had any hand in trying to protect her.

“More then that Dany, I look at you and see.. the future. My future.” Her wolf shrugged so casually at that, as if her statement of seeing a future with Dany, as if it wasn't that big of a deal. It was ridiculous, the idea was... it was _everything_. Everything Daenerys never thought she would have, but dreamed of having when she was just a girl who lived in a house with a red door and a lemon tree outside her window. Before Khal Drogo, before she crowned her brother in molten gold, before dragons, and the redwastes, and slaversbay and the son of the harpies. When all she had wanted was love and family and a quiet, good life.

It was _everything_.

“At some point over the last few months, some where between late night talks, and quiet mornings. Between our debates and our small arguments, and Tyrion's dirty jokes, and Missandrie's teasing, and in between rounds of morning sickness, and foot rubs and the way you run your fingers through my hair and despite a war for the existence of all life hammering at our door. I fell in love with yo-ommph!.”

The word was swallowed by Dany's lips, when she had stood and crossed the room and framed Arya's face in both her hands, drawing her still moving lips the few inches down and capturing them, tasting for herself the heartfelt, love filled confession that Arya had been giving.

The kiss turned into a lingering, brushing of lips, the pair breathing the same air for a long moment before Dany pulled back, resting her forehead, meeting those slightly glazed gray eyes with her equally emotion darkened purple ones.

Thumbs brushing across the nearly acquired scars, still pink, but no longer tender and raw on Arya's cheeks, Dany spoke softly, her own whispered confession. Because sometimes, she had read the question she had asked in Arya's eyes. Seen the doubts that lingered behind the steel gaze.

“Mistakes aside. I grew up hating House Stark for your father's part in the rebellion. So when I came here I didn't know what to expect. I found it cold and harsh. And the people colder and harsher still. I did not feel welcomed here.”

“You sound like my mother” Arya mumbled, in good nature, though there was a fond note for the long dead Southern born matriarch of House Stark. Most might have been put off being compared to a suitors mother, Dany took it in stride, giving Arya's ear an abolishing tug.  
  
“Hush you. As I was saying. I didn't feel welcome here, but I was here for a reason. I saw you, even when you didn't want to be seen sometimes. You were a curiosity, moving through your own home like a ghost. And then my attention was grabbed by other matters, like the fact I was pregnant.. and this.. sudden mystery I had on my hands.

And then I found out that that mystery a woman who... didn't see me as queen, or savior or the mad king's daughter. She didn't look at my children and see beasts, she didn't look at the things I had done and see a monster. She was kind, and patient, and so so gentle. And there was a type of honor, a sense of justice there under the danger and the blood. And at first I thought that was all there was”

“This woman who was funny, and made me laugh. Who was intelligent, and cunning. A woman who... fought so hard to live, to make it home. Who gave of herself to her people so freely, high born or low born. Who wasn't afraid to work with her hands, who gave mercy where she could, and swift retribution when needed.

And I have met so many people who offered me pretty promises and oaths of fealty, only for it all to turn like so much ash in my hands. And here was a woman who offered me neither, but has given me her heart without asking for anything and.. Gods Arya, haven't you figured out I love you too?”

There was so many things Daenerys needed to say to her. So many things they needed to talk about. Because she didn't want Arya to ruin her relationship with her siblings because of her. And there was the fact that she had named Arya the other parent of her child – _their_ child- her mind corrected. And what were they going to assuming they all survived the Winter.

But none of that mattered right now.

Because they were both crying, slow hot tears, but they were the good kind, Dany knew as Arya gave a wet laugh, wrapping one arm around her waist, and tangling the fingers of her other hand into ashen hair, their lips suddenly caught in a messy kisses, knocking teeth, and bumping noses at first before they found a rhythm.

And she didn't know who parted their lips first, but suddenly their tongues were locked in a dance of dominance, teeth nipping at lips, breaths caught. And the cloak that had been around her shoulders hit the floor as Dany's clever figures figured out the buckle of Arya's belt, her weapons hitting the ground.

Teeth scraping along the line of her neck had her moaning, a hot clever mouth at the join between neck and shoulder, eager to brand her pale flesh had her baring more of her neck with a soft approving hiss. Dany abandon the half undone ties of Arya's over jacket to tangle the fingers of one hand into the short hairs at the back of Arya's neck, tugging until the slightly taller woman brought her lips back up in another passionate kiss, the she wolf groaning low into her mouth when her other hand had found the Stark woman's ass, squeezing as she pulled their lower bodies as flushed as they could with the swell of her stomach between them.

Somehow they had managed to stumble, pushing, tugging, blind, backwards towards the bed. She had managed to get Arya's jacket off, lips brushing across new scars. Fingers working to strip the she-wolf of the long coat she wore under it.   
  
“To many layers” Dany mumbled, husky, breathless into her wolf's.. her lovers ear, lips latching onto the spot behind that she knew was sensitive. Thrilling at the way the wolf bore her throat to her explorations. The mumbled complaint earned her a throaty chuckle the sound vibrating against her lips, mainly because Arya had already managed to strip her down to her under shirt and pants.

Arya pulled back, a move that would have made Dany give a decidedly unqueenly whine, if it hadn't been immediately apparent that their physical separation was only temporary as Arya's nibble fingers made quick work of the hidden ties and buttons that made up her outfit, until they were at last equal in layers.

The pair took care of their own boots, there was really no seductive way to divest of footwear Daenerys knew, but it was necessary.

When Arya had gone to take care of her own undershirt, Dany's hands stayed her. Purple eyes, darken with desire meeting that of Arya's noting the way the black of her wolf's pupils had nearly consumed all of the steel-gray color.

It was nice to know that she wasn't the only one so deeply effected by this, they had been dancing around the physical connection for months. Neither wanting to rush it. Perhaps now wasn't the right time, Daenerys thought, they were both overly emotional, the day had been trying. The Night King could attack any day and...

She wasn't ready. She realized with a start – it was ridiculous, shes been raped, shes laid with men and women countless of times, for power, for peace, in a leave-of-sanity-one-night-stand but here, now she... wasn't ready, and she found herself freezing in place.

A hand, made rough by sword work and labor cupped her cheek. Eyes, though blown with desire, were kind and patient and more then understanding when they met her own. The tender way Arya reached up with her other hand, leaving Dany's to tangle and fist in the material of the front of the other woman's shirt – to brush a loose strand of ashen hair behind Dany's ear had the Queen melting, leaning into the wolf's touch.

She could feel the thundering heart beat under her hands, the way Arya drew in deep, slow calming breaths, and Dany found herself matching each push and pull of air from her lungs, until both their hearts began to settle.

“Lay down with me? I want... I would very much like to hold you.” Arya said, her voice still husky, was still a bit raw with desire and need. But was no less tender for it.

Dany felt her throat tighten and instead of speaking she nodded, and pulled Arya onto the bed with her. The pair took a minute to arrange themselves, the older of the two tucking her face into Arya's neck, cuddled as close as her stomach would allow.

Arya didn't say a word about the way Dany shook slightly, the way her breath shuddered, or the tears she could feel dampening her neck. She simply drew the top comforter over them, before tucking one arm under her head, and wrapping the other over Dany's waist until her fingers could trace nonsensical patterns up and down the slightly shorter woman's back until both of them fell into a light slumber, exhausted already despite there being hours yet until supper.

\- - - -


	6. Chapter 6

**_Red Blossoms_ **   
_Part 6_

 

\- - - -

It was evident that nothing stayed secret for long within the walls of Winterfell. Least of all when it, and the town it loomed over was packed to the brim with people as more and more people began to seek the safety of the walls of Winterfell as the snow continued to deepen and the Northerners remembered the tales of the ancestors.

The people that called these frozen, snow covered lands home had begun to treat her differently shortly after Dany had declared Arya the father of her child in that fateful Small Council meeting. And that change became more noticeable when Jon left -flead more like – With Ser Davos south, something about a few terrible men and a smith she believed. She cared not.

The people here often bowed their head as she passed, mummers of 'my queen' or 'your grace' falling from their lips. They were respectful, but warm in their interactions with her. The Matriarch, that commanded the keep's kitchens coming to her more then once to find out what the Dragon Queen liked. A seamstress gifting her with a new, much warmer cloak, a leather-men with a pair of fur lined deer skin gloves. A cobbler a pair of well fitted boots.

She knew the gifts were given of their own will, their own generosity, and not by the previously unseen hand of Arya. Which made them mean more. That her improve treatment tweaked the nose of Lady Stark was a delight to both her and her wolf.

Dany wondered how she ever thought the people of the North to be cold. .

Of course, hers was not the only treatment that had changed. The manner in which the people, noble and commoner, guards and civilians both treated Arya had also changed. Each person growing more bold with Jon's departure.

Jon may have been the so called King in the North, and Sansa may have been the Lady of Winterfell. But it was too Arya that the people now came, for advice, or to settle disputes. to Arya that the guards and the armies now looked to when it came to preparing for the war with the Night King, for preparing for Winter that was already here.

Dany had to admit, it was fascinating to watch each of those interactions. The way Arya's face lit up with a new idea. The spark in her eyes at some devious battle plan. The firm hand in which she delt justice. The candance of her voice as she looked over the work of the smithies, or the masons, or the delightful way she laughed as she played with the children in the the snow or worked with them on shooting a bow.

This too, more then irked Sansa. Whom she often spied standing upon the raised covered walkways, over looking the verious parts of Winterfell.

More then once Dany had over heard the rows between the sisters. The red haired Stark eyes were still stubbornly fixed south to the Salt King that now sat upon the Iron Throne.

When she asked about it. Arya had laughed and snorted.

“Sansa is a summer child, still playing the Game of Thrones, when the time for games ended with the arrival of Winter. Even as bat shit crazy as he is, Euron is no fool, he wont come north in the Winter, and thats without believing in the threat of the White Walkers. Hes hardly the threat that Sansa believes him to be. ”

Of course, it wasn't just the Northern people, or even the allied lords whose behavior had changed. Daenerys was both amused and equally intrigued by the changes in how her own forces treated Arya.

The Dothraki, including her blood riders were as differential to Arya as they had been to her, back when she had been married to Drogo, treating the she-wolf almost as if she was their Khal. It wasn't exactly the same, but given the Dothraki beliefs that a person could be born to the wrong body, more intriguing then surprising. Though Dany did wonder how long it would take until they started calling her Khal Arya.

The Unsullie followed Arya's orders second only to her own she had also noticed, once the whispered tale of Arya's time in the House of Black and White had made its way through the ranks. According to Gray-Worm, the Unsullie saw much of themselves in Arya. They equated her time within the House as a form of slavery, that she broke her own shackles by reclaiming her name, just as they had to claim a name of their own after Dany's had broken their shackles.

The sellswords, The Second Sons and Brazen Beasts, whose numbers now included second daughters, and members who wore the faces of beasts of the North in Arya's honor, were each eager to prove themselves to Arya, who had begun training an elite group of fighters taken from all parts of this alliance, each former sellsword, now loyal solider wanting to be apart of the Queen's consort's Wolf Pack.

And the former slaves who had followed her across the Narrow Sea... they whispered _Kepa_ when they spoke of Arya now, Kepa; Father. For who better to stand at their _Mhysa's_ side then one who had studied under the Faceless Men, who granted the gift of mercy to the slaves of Old Valyria so long ago.

She shouldn't be surprised by any of this of course, six months into her pregnancy, nearing the end of her second trimester, there was no hiding that she was with child. Just like there was no hiding the still unnamed relationship between her and Arya, as the she-wolf was a ever protective shadow, seen just on the edge of sight.

The behavior might have been over baring from another. But she found that in Arya it was more enduring as the younger woman never made any attempt to interfere with her duties as Queen, nor prevent her from helping where she could in the continued preparations. Nor did Arya let her worry get in the way of her own duties and preparations.

It was a change from the way Drogo had hovered when she had been pregnant with Raego. The constant way Hizdahr zo Loraq had attempted to subvert her rule once they had wedded, how Darrio often belittled her in the guise of 'helping' once she had taken him as a lover, or how Jorah was overbearing in his so called love and devotion.

Nor did either woman had made it a secret that Dany had practically moved into Arya's room after Jon had broken into her's in hopes of ambushing her and pressing the matter of the idenity of her child, and more then likely, his so called claim to the Iron Throne.

Dany had to admit that it was more then pleasant to know that at the end of the day, no matter how trying it may have been, she would get to curel up against Arya. And that each morning usually began with them waking tangled together. Usually, but not always, Dany was all to aware and intimately familiar with burdens of leadership that often pulled Arya from their bed long before the ashen haired woman stirred herself.

Which was why she did her best to make sure there was some sort of hot porridge sent up in the mornings when she knew Arya would be up and dressed well before most of Winterfell. Made sure that the cooks served her wolf a tankard of hot spice cider during the short lunch Arya allowed herself, knowing that the dark haired woman cared little for wine, but loved the northern drink.

Or things like sending Missandie with Arya when the other woman worked with the Dothraki, to act as a translator. For all Arya was fluent in High Valyrian, and a number of the Free-City variants, her Dothraki was still mostly garbled gibbous, though Dany had to admit it was improving.

She also instructed her own advisers to act as Arya's, doing anything within their power to make it easier for Arya to do what she needed done. It needent had been said of course, for each member of her small council had already accepted Arya's place at her side.

There were a number of other little things, or big things she was able and willing to do to help ease the Stark woman's burden, to keep her healthy and well. Much the way Arya did the same for her. It was nice to be able to care for the woman she loved, the way Arya had been taking care of her for months now.

Though often Dany felt at a lost about how to show her wolf she cared, as the former-faceless man required little in way of clothing, least of all the sort of finery that would befit the consort of a Queen., was more satisfied with a simple fare of meat and potatoes then she would be by any sort of a rich decedent meal. And she had no interest in material things, more keen on the practical. She did have a few ideas, and worked diligently to see them to fruition.

Dispite the suddenness of the 'move', and the open 'secret' of their undefined relationship, both women were still taking things slow. Their conversation the morning after their aborted love making had been a catharsis for them both, each knowing that the other loved them, and come what may they'd face it together.

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and two months after Jon had fled instead of facing his problems, he, along with Ser Davos returned, with a group of rough looking men, that had Arya spitting curses, one she called Dog, in reply to his grunted 'Girl', her wolf staring the towering man down for a long moment before the pair clasp arms, Arya murmuring something about having leaving him to die, and him just laughing.

There was also the Red Woman Melisandre, Dany was surprised by the priestess' presence given that Jon was clearly unhappy that she was there. But Arya's reaction was visceral, raw, she snarled, and would have plunged her dagger into the Red Woman's throat had the Hound not held the she-wolf back.

The last was a young man. Average height, with broad shoulders and thick arms, and black hair cropped uniformly short. Arya had embraced him like a brother, but Dany saw the way dark blue eyes looked at the she-wolf and felt the hot flare of jealous burn through her.

It didn't last long, her jealousy of the smith who was the bastard of the Usurper Robert. Arya had grin when she realized what had had her in such a foul mood, before she had put her mind at ease.

“Gendry is a friend. A stupid bullheaded bastard, but a friend none the less. We went through a lot together, him, me, and Hot Pie, until the Brothers without Banners sold him to that Red Bitch, and Hot Pie decided to stay and do what he does best, bake.” That night, Arya didn't tell a tale of a Stark or a Targaryen, but a boy named Arry, who traveled with a bastard smith, and a baker's orphan in a land torn apart by war. And though her silent wolf directed the story at Rabbit who had been fussing all day, Dany knew the story was for her, to put her mind at ease and sooth the jealousy that had flared in her heart.

Of course, Jon's return also changed the atmosphere around Winterfell, but a second extended absence in the year since he had been named King In the North had not endeared him to the people, nor the Northern Lords. And the changes that Arya had made, the things she had accomplished and the way both she and Dany had worked together to seamlessly unite the different sides of this alliance had clearly caught him flat footed and not doubt spoiled any grand plans he might have come up with during his time in the south.

His return also heralded the return of the hostilities between Arya and her remaining family members. It had taken nearly a month after Jon had left for things to come to a head between the siblings. But afterwards, Dany could count on finding her wolf with Lady Stark, the three women often having to work together to ensure that this alliance ran smoothly and that the lords and ladies did not just return home, taking their armies and supplies with them.

And Bran had recently began looking at the pair of them with the most curious expression on his face, though he maintained a cold distance to the younger Stark sister.

The return of the hostilities bothered Arya more then she let on, Daenerys knew this. Jon's return may have left a sour taste in her mouth, but that was nothing compared to how the bastard's quick action to once more drive the siblings apart effected Arya. She knew that the she-wolf and the man that would claim to be her nephew had been close as children. Arya spoke fondly of the Jon from her childhood, which made his actions all the more tragic and maddening.

It was like Jon was constantly angry at Arya's continued existence. She had noticed it before, on Dragonstone when the dark haired man had shown no joy, only annoyance at the news that two of his younger siblings, siblings he had thought head, had managed to survive the wars and betrayals, and had at long last returned to Winterfell.

She had thought it strange then. But given that her supposed nephew continued brooding in regards to thrones and crowns and rightful rulers, Daenerys was beginning to suspect that now that Jon had gotten a taste of what it was like to have power, what it was like to be Lord, to be King, he wanted to remain as such. And if he couldn't claim his so-called birth right, as the suppose true-born son of Rheager, then he would cling to the Winter Throne. And Arya was the only one of the true-born Starks who had yet to bend-the-knee to him.

_'The North knows no King but the one named Stark”_ The Northern Lords whispered. _“And he is a Snow.”_ Did Jon hear those whispers Dany wondered. Is that why he seem to hate the little sister he once was so closed to. Because she could take what he saw as his? Including Daenerys and her unborn child -she and Arya disagreed as to what gender the child would be-. Did he fear that she would banish him? Or out him as Rheager's son, and let the Northern Lords cast him down.

If so then he was a greater fool then she had original suspected. Arya had no designs on his crown, and Dany had every intention of naming Sansa warden of the North. She might not like Lady Stark, but her personal feelings didn't mean she was blind to the fact that Sana had every potential of being a great ruler.

\- - - -

In her dreams, wolves howled. Hundreds of them, though none more defening then the great she-bitch that lead them. They howled in three long snarling notes. It was the howling that woke her, had her snapping awake in the dead of night, ears still ringing.

Arya slowed her heart, automatically letting the rise and fall of her breaths fall inline with the slumbering woman in her arms. At seven months, Dany required more sleep, often taking naps during the day as it was sometimes difficult for her to find a comfortable position at night, assuming that Rabbit's restless kicking didn't keep her up.

Outside the wind howled, snow and ice lashing against the shuttered windows. Strange, Arya thought, sleep-warm and content as she was, her mind was still muddled. There had been no signs of a storm on the horizon hours previously.

But the howling winds sounded angry, the lashing ice and snow battered the window like the beats of a war drum and in her mind the snarling howls of a great-she bitch spoke of a warning.

Arya jumped out of bed, quickly dressing, pulling on layers of wool and fur, and then armor of leather, buckling her new sword – Jamie Lannister had given up Widows Wail, turning it over to Daenerys who had it reforged, made to fit a woman's hand, before it was presented to Arya. The Targaryen woman returning the final piece of Ice, her father's great sword to House Stark – She had yet to give it a name, Ice no longer fit the blade. And Arya found that the only names that swirled in her head were names for a daughter yet born.

Though she had tried to be quiet, her actions caused Daenerys to stir.

“Arry'?” Dany slurred, heavy lidded purple eyes still glazed with sleep blinked slowly in the dimness of the room.

“ _They_ are coming. I need to go. And you need to dress” Arya said, wincing a little at how harsh that sounded. But her words had the desired effect, the half-asleep woman was instantly awake, struggling to pull herself out of bed, heavy as child as she was. She moved over to Dany's side of the bed, helping the woman up, pausing to offer a soft kiss as an apology for her tone, and a second, more lingering one that ended with both women resting their foreheads together.

The pair took a moment to still their hearts, basking just for a moment longer in the claim before the storm. _Be safe_ each whispered in their heart. _I love you_ they exchanged, not with words, but with eyes and touch.

With one last kiss, one last lingering touch and look, Arya departed, calling for the sleepers to be awaken, leaving Daenerys behind to dress and wake the allied council, to call forth her children. Each of them already knowing what must be done.

\- - - -

Jon found her on the north facing wall, steel-gray eyes fixed firmly to the northeast. Fires already been lit all around and within the walls of Winterfell and Winter Town. A keep a buzz of silent activity, everyone already knowing their place, what they must do.

“It's been hours. No horn call, and Bran doesn't seem to see them coming. I gave the stand down order.” He announced as if his words were something more then wind. As if the amount of activity had slowed, as if at his word, people had moved from their post, to return to bed.

“There was. But neither of you are wolves any longer, so you couldn't hear it.”

“Wha--”

In the distance, a single horn blast came, then a second, and then a third that was quickly silence. Along the wall, those who had once defended Winterfell from the White Walkers already all gave the same grim devil-may-care smile. Those who had not, quivered, shuffling their feet nervously.

“What do we say to the God of Death?” Arya called, pitching her voice to carry above the howling wind, to rise above the biting cold and cut through the fear. All around her, up and down the lines of men and women that stood on the wall. In the yards below, young and old, be they from Essos or Westeros, North or South, kneeler or wildling, answered back.   
  
“NOT TODAY!”

\- - - -

Time lost all meaning when the sun neither rose nor set as the living and dead fought. For months Arya had laid traps, and built defenses. And each was put to use, put to the test now.

The pits of spikes she had had dug and covered with leather and thing woven sticks that gave way under the weight of the massive hord took out dozens of Others at a time. The barrels of lamp oil that had been hidden under burlap and snow that she had stacked in different places on the battlefield, exploded when set alight by a dozen fire arrows.

She had set alight pitch and tar spread in the field, as she had had the first siege. Dany's remaining dragons cut massive swaths of fire through the enemy line. The dragonglass tip spikes at the bottom of Winterfell's moat slayed undead trolls and giants and mammoths that the White Walkers attempted to have breach their walls.

One by one, each of her traps triggered, the unnatural dying wiles of the undead sounding at all hours as the defenders worked in shifts to keep up the defense, to keep the night fires burning, to ward away the chill and to burn the dead as they fell, before they could rise again.

But still the dead kept coming, and still the Night King had yet to show himself.

Arya had learned from the last siege. And knew how to keep track of time. And knew that days turned into weeks until suddenly a month had passed without a single sunrise.

The Night King showed on the thirty-sixth day without sun, herald by a terrible screeching roar and a burning blast of cold and ice and frost that froze all it kissed.

The Undead shell of Viserion sent the defenders diving for cover, turning the tied of battle as his frost breath encased the siege weaponry in ice and making it hard for the living to man the walls.

On the thirty-ninth, Jon plunged Longclaw into the breast of Melisandre, and when he drew it out, the blade was awashed in flame. The Red Woman finally got her Azor Ahai it seemed.

On the forty-second, Daenerys, though heavily pregnant, rode out on the back of Drogon, Rhaegal at her side to take the battle to the Night King, driving him and her undead son off to give the weary defenders a few hours of respite, and a chance to regain the ground they had lost.

Arya had yelled at her for hours afterwards, her wrath inter-spaced with hands that kept searching for signs of injury and lips that kept catching the Queen's, fingers tangled in silver hair, with the other splayed protectively over the roundness of her belly to feel their child kick under her hand.

On the fourty-fifth, a great howl cut across the battle field, as what seemed like every wolf in Westeros came charging out of the treesline of the Wolf Woods, lead by a great she-bitch of a Direwolf the size of a war horse. The defenders had let out a cheer, as Arya cried out Nymeria!, letting the defenders know that this great bitch was the direwolf of the youngest daughter of House Stark.

The wolves cut a massive swath through the flank of the undead army, ripping and tearing apart the Others, though none more ferocious then the great gray bitch, until they reached the gates of Winterfell, which opened just enough to allow the bitch and her smaller pack mates through.

The fifty-first saw Jon, with his flaming sword, decide to lead a sally out of the gates to push back the Others, Those that followed him were quick to cut a swath through the undead, but the horde merely closed in behind them, rushing through the gates before they could closed fully.

It took hours for the defenders to clear the keep of the undead that had managed to come through thanks to Jon's stupidity. And many died because of that breach. A fact Arya publicly reamed Jon for when him and what remained of his decimated forces returned.

The she-wolf listed names, the names of those who had ridden out with Jon but hadn't returned, the names of those within the walls who fell when the Others slipped in behind him. She named each of the dead, among them Podric, Jorah, Meera Reed, and Bran, Bran who was found dead beneath the heart tree, the body of Meera at his feet with a dozen of others spread out before her, a valyarian steel sword still clench in her dead hand.

Bran whom Arya would never get to make up with, the last conversation between bother and sister had been unpleasant. Cold, indifferent. The cripple the Three-Eyed Raven, no longer a wolf, no longer pack.

The sword had been the Targaryen blade Dark Sister. Where the crannogwoman had found the long lost blade no one could say. The sword went to Daenerys, and Meera was burned in a separate pyre, so that her ashes might be returned home to her father.

The fifty-sixth brought the return of the Night King, who turned his sights not on Jon with Lightbringer, but Arya, whom he decided was a bigger threat then the idiot brandishing a flaming extension of his cock for all the use it was.

He brought Not-Viserion into a dive out of the night, and in old tongue gave an order, and unleashed froze death upon the wall where Arya had been fighting against Others who had managed to scale it.

The burning blue blast of frost flash froze all in its path but for the undead, who were quick to turn their gaze on other, -living- targets as the Night King, believing he had taken care of the threat of the she-wolf who had defeated him the last time made a lazy wide bank, as if to take in the reactions of those who cared about the dark haired woman.

Above, Dany watched, and she screamed and felt her heart stop and shatter. No, _No,_ _ **NO!**_. Not Arya, Gods, please not Arya. Beneath and beside her Drogon and Rheagal roared their own anguish, as below Nymeria gave a enraged howl.

On the wall, the frozen form of Arya, caught in mid swing of her sword shook faintly, the trembling growing until the woman took a staggering step forward. The defenders cried out in fear, thinking that the Stark woman had awaken as an other, Jon already half up the stairs, Lightbringer in hand prepared to swing the blow to cut down the undead form of his sister-cousin from behind when Sansa, who had raced over, sliding across the ice and snow as easily as if she wore bladed boots, called to him.   
  
“Wait!”

Unlike Jon, Sansa could see Arya's face and saw the moment her little sister's eyes open, revealing the same old steel-gray House Stark was known for. The she-wolf shook like a dog, tossing her head to shake the ice and snow from it before glancing over her shoulder at Jon.

“Planing on stabbing me in the back _Jaehearys_?” Arya taunted, smugly watching the flaming sword lower as Jon seem to slump in on his self before he was nearly knocked from the wall when Nymeria came bounding up, her hot tongue licking the frost from her mistress' face before letting out a joyious howl.

The question of how and why would have to wait as there was still a war to be fought. Above, the howl caught the ear of Daenerys, who, along side of her dragon's let out their own cry of joy, as the defenders found renewed strength in the murical of Arya's survival, quickly laying waste to the undead within the walls, their battle cries drowning out the enraged and otherworldly scream of the Night King as he retreated, his army pulling back as well.

The fifty-seventh and fifty-eighth day were days of rest. For while the undead needed neither sleep nor food, and stood still, waiting just on the edge of night and shadow, even queasy immortal kings and their armies needed to re-assist

Though there was much work to be done, not a soul in Winterfell, - save perhaps Jon, who spent much the two days brooding about answers he would not get – begrudged or took issue with Arya and Dany shutting themselves in their room. With the Queen's pregnancy was nearing term and Arya's that-should-have-killed-her experience, it was understandable that the ashen haired woman and the she-wolf sought sanctuary in one another.

It was if by unspoken agreement, that had nothing to do with the massive direwolf that had laid herself in front of the pair's chamber door, that no one bothered either woman, taking all matters either to Lord Tyrion or Lady Sansa instead.

On the fifty-ninth, when the interlude ended and the war resumed anew, they ran out of pitch and tar, and their stores of dragonglass were looking pitiful. But so too was the numbers of the enemy.

On the sixty-second day, word reached Arya up on the eastern wall. The Queen had was experiencing labor pains, and the Maester had confined her to bed. Growling at the thought of missing Rabbit's birth, steel-gray eyes turned towards the dark sky, where Dany's winged children did battle against their undead breath and the Night King, keeping him away from the keep and town, occasionally swooping down to cut a scotching swath through a group of other's.

“Rheagal! To Me!” Arya called, her face setting in a determined masked. She didn't know if the green and bronze dragon would listen to her, she didn't know if he would allow her this, but she had to try. She needed to end this. For Winterfell, for the North, for Westeros, for Dany, for Rabbit.

Rabbit was her child, true sire be damned, Rabbit was hers and Daenerys' child, and Arya wanted him or her to pick spring blossoms to make flower crowns and run through fields green grass beneath the summer sun. She wanted their child to grow up in a world at peace as much as it can be, to live, to laugh and sing and dance and love, never knowing fear, or hunger, or cold or true strife.

She wanted to be there for all of that. From the moment Rabbit came into this world, until Arya's last moment. But to do that, she needed to put a end to the Long Night.

Rheagal swooped down, and Arya, who had scaled the stairs of the broken tower, to stand on the ledge of the very same window from which Bran fell from waited. And for a moment she and Rheagal were of one mind, for the green dragon passed as close as he could to the tower, slowing as much as he could,

and Arya lept.

And Arya soared, Rheagal's nose pointed nearly directly up towards the black clouds, the shocked cries of her people at seeing her astride a dragon growing distant as the world fell away.

Fate was a funny thing, Arya thought as she and Rheagal broke through the clouds, seeing stars, and the shadowed sun, -an eclipse, was this the true source of the Long Night?- for the first time in two months.

For most of her life, she had been compared to the ghost of her dead aunt, with whom Rheager had sired a child who would be raised by Arya's father, who would in turn sire a child who would be raised by Arya. And here she was, on the back of a dragon, name for the man who ultimately set in motion a wheel that had torn Westeros apart all because of a thrice damn prophecy that Arya was determined to rip apart all so that she could grow old beside the woman she loved and raise their child together.

Together woman and dragon dove, back through the clouds, breaking through above and behind where the Night King sat astride Not-Viserion, the undead dragon and its equally frosty rider prepared to finish off Drogon who had suffered a injury that forced him to the ground.

Arya drew her unnamed sword, and rose into a crouch, right hand keeping a steady grip on Rhaegal, waiting... waiting...

Inhale... exhale... inhale...

She lept.

And the world seem to stop for an impossible timeless moment, before rushing to catch up to the she-wolf.

Woman, dragon and undead king all screamed as they came crashing to the earth, kicking up ice and snow and frozen earth as Not-Viserion plowed a deep groove, throwing both riders off.

Breath.. remember to breath. Arya thought, hand closing around the weirwood hilt of her sword as she coughed and gasped, flexing fingers, toes, working hands and feet, arms and legs. Checking for breaks and fractures.

She pulled herself to her feet with a groan and looked around. Winterfell was a distant blazing source of light to her right. Gleaming like a lone beacon, a light house on a rocky shore, a mass of searging bodies, shapeless and featureless at this distance, ebbed and flowed like a storm tossed sea where the army of the dead clashed with the army of the living.

The Ice Dragon laid to her left, its breathing laboured, the deep gaping slash Arya had rent in its side when she had landed upon it did not bleed so much as oozed. Stumbling in the thick snow, she made her way over to it. A dim blue eye watched her wearly, and knowingly something intelligent and pleading in its gaze. The dragon groaned, and then sighed, its eye sliding shut as Arya slide her sword between ribs, plunging valyrian steel into the dragon's heart, at last ending the undeath of Daenerys' lost son.

There world this far out was dark as pitch, but that was of no concern. She had other senses after all.

It was her hearing that alerted her to movement behind her, the sound of snow compacting, the crackle pop of ice breaking, the hiss of a blade cutting through the air. Arya rolled forward, coming up to stand face to face with the Night King.

In the retelling of it, the battle between the Night King and the She-Wolf was always a hundred times better then it was in reality, the collective imaginings of the people running wild with what must have happened there beyond the edge of night and shadow.

It was better that way, Arya would think after the fact.

For the army of the living, one moment they had been desperately fighting, for the last of the dragonglass had been used, and now it was a pitch battle. The next, the dead just... dropped, and the few remaining White Walkers, the commanders of the undead army disintegrated like cold frozen ash.

Then hours later, on the dawn of the first day, with the rising sun to her back, the first watcher on the wall spotted Arya slowly limping through the snow towards Winterfell. Nymeria had rashed out to greet her mistress, nuzzling the injured woman until with a groan, Arya had managed to sling herself up onto the direwolf's back.

The cheering was deafening when she rode through the battered gates, a dozen helping hands helping see her into the care of the healers.

The healers were mid-bandage when Tyrion, looking worse for wear found her. The Imp leaned in, and whispered into her ear.

Daenerys was in labor.

The labor lasted hours, time enough for Arya to clean up and have her wounds rebandage before returning, as the Maesters and healers wouldn't let Arya into the room until she had scrubbed herself raw. Time enough for Arya to return to Dany's side, to help her sit upright, to bear her weight between contractions, to wipe the sweat from her brow, and press soft kisses to flushed sweaty flesh and whisper encouragement and words of love and endearment and small little dreams that Arya had been nursing. Time enough for Daenerys to scream and cry, and yell at Arya, that this was some how all her fault, despite the obvious logistical issue that Arya did not in fact sire the child that decided to come a little earlier then expected.

But finally with a last exhausted cry the babe came out. There was a breathless moment of silence, and then, the sweetest sound filled the room as a set of tiny little lungs let the world know of their owners arrival.

“A girl! A heathy baby girl!” Samwell declared as he bundled up the squalling babe to be cleaned after cutting the cord with a quick slice with the dragonbone handle dagger Arya had handed him for just that task.

After the afterbirth, after the babe, had been cleaned, the grinning not-Maester placed the restless newborn, wrapped in a soft Targaryen red blanket into the arms of her exhausted mother.

“Hello Rabbit” Dany cooed, brushing the back of one finger across a perfect cheek. Behind her, Arya chuckled as Rabbit began to root around for her first meal, the she-wolf counting fingers and toes and brushing gentle finger tips through the wisps of impossibly soft ashen hair that crowned their daughter's head.

As if sensing the difference in the touch of her mothers, the newborn opened her eyes. Gray eyes, like Arya's, but a shade darker; the color of valyrian steel.

“Hello Daena Targaryen.”

\- - - -

 


	7. Chapter 7

**_Red Blossoms_ **   
_Part 7_

 

\- - - -

When Daenerys Targaryen marched on the capital three years later at the first signs of a Spring thaw, the people of King's Landing, the half starved ghouls over powered every guard, to throw open every gate into the city as two great winged beast so large that their shadows swallowed the city passed over head.

The Queen's army of savage horsemen, and foreign eunuchs and former sellwords and slaves. Her army of Westernmen, and Dornishmen, and Reachmen and Rivermen and Northmen passed through the city uncontested, unimposed, passing out food and water, healers and measters peeling off from the main body to every corner of the city, doing no harm to the citizens and refugees within the city that her ancester had built.

Euron Greyjoy, the Salt King who had recently relocated to the Red Keep never got to meet the fabled beautiful Queen. When the ashen haired woman had pushed open the doors of the great throne room, her _wife_ sat on the highest steps leading up to the Iron Throne, the Ironborn man and all his guards already dead at her feet.

Daenerys stood before the Iron Throne, the seat Aegon I had fordge from the blades of his enemies and adjusted the slumbering babe on her hip.

“Let us begin.”

\- - - -

The birth of Daena Targaryen, crown princess had been cause for great celebration in Winterfell, the Northmen seeing the birth of the Stark-Targaryen daughter as a sign of a dawn of a new era. It took months to see to give the dead proper rites, and a full year for Winterfell to recover from two month long night that was quickly dubbed the “Winter War”.

Three months after what became known as “New Dawn”, Jon Snow caved under pressure from the Northern Lords and bent-the-knee, biting his tongue when Daenerys named Sansa as Warden of the North.

Six months after she had slew the Night King, Arya had taken Daena into the God's Wood, and before witnesses she had smeared a line of the red sap from the heart-tree, and a bit of her own blood across the babes brow, and named her her daughter, blood of House Stark, Blood of the Wolf, daughter of the North, before the Old Gods, in a rite that dated back to the First Men.

The Winter War had revitalized the North's worship of the Old Gods, and with the guidance of the Free-Folk, they were beginning to relearn the traditions and rituals of the Old Ways.

Nine months after the Winter War, Daenerys wrapped a cloak of red and black around Arya's shoulders before the heart-tree, in a simple but beautiful ceremony that ended with the newly wed pair sharing a deep kiss much the riotous joy of those assembled, and the laughing delight of the ashen haired infant held securely in her aunt's arms.

The Lords and Ladies and their banners returned home after each bent the knee to the ashen haired Queen and her Wolf-Consort, seeing to their own Houses and people until the Queen called upon them to honor the oaths they had sworn.

Some time in the second year, Sansa Stark wed Gendry Baratheon, whom Daenerys had legitimized. The marriage displeased Jon, but delighted Arya, who saw the bullheaded smith as another brother long before he and Sansa began their own strange courtship.

The first child came a scandalous six months later, a handsome girl with Stark looks and laughing eyes the deep Baratheon blue that the pair named Olenna Stark. Another three, two boys and a girl would follow.

It took a while, but eventually the sisters mended the the rift between them. Arya often flying north on Rhaegal, sometimes with Daenerys on Drogon, to visit her sister and good-brother along with their brood of children, to whom Arya would gift Nymeria's litter of half-wolf pups when they had been weened. Occasionally, Sansa would make the trip south. Though it was not often she did so as she had no happy memories of the capital and its Red Keep.

Daenerys named Davos the new Lord of Stormend. House Seaworth would passed to the eldest of his surviving sons Devan, The Seaworth name would to go down in history as being stalwart protectors of the people, and would rule the Stormland's for many generations to come.

That same year, Brienne of Tarth finally threw her hands up after years of putting up with Tormund and allowed herself to be 'stolen', blackening the redhaired man's eye before she yanked him into a kiss. The free-man's time in the south had taught him a great deal about southern courtship, and he had attempted to do it in a manner Brienne would understand for the last year. Ironically his efforts to do things her way was what convinced her that his intentions were serious, and his affections honest.

The pair were wedded and bedded within month, their first child -a large lad with a head-full of thick hair the color of summer wheat was quick to follow nine months later. They would have another twelve children in the decade to follow, in addition to Tormund's two grown daughters from his late wife.

Selwyn Tarth, Brienne's father was sceptical at first, but quickly warmed to the loud and forthright wildling man who made his daughter laugh like that and helped fill Evenfall Hall with the sounds of life, love and laughter.

Jamie Lannister would take the black shortly after Daenerys was crown Queen of the seven Kingdoms. Through means unknown, the Wall was eventually restored, though it took decades to do, and never rose to quite the height as it had before. He would eventually rise to become the 1001th Lord Commander, serving until his dying day. And although the Queen struck down the law that forbid black and white cloaks from marriage and children, Jamie never married and sired no known children.

Jaehearys “Jon” Targaryen was legitimized eventually, but it would be years after the fact, when any support for the Iron Throne he might have had faded into the pages of history. The dark haired man traveled far and wide, searching out the mysterys of the world. He would return to Westeros every half decade or so over a long life time, but never stayed long.

It is unknown if he ever married or had children. Or the exact cause and location of his death. One day a messenger appeared at Winterfell, and placed Longclaw, for the blade had ceased to produce flame when the Night King was killed, before an elderly Sansa Stark.

In the second year of the reign of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Missandie was wedded to Grey-Worm, Lord Commander of the Queen's Guard, the pair was unable to have children of their own, but that did not stop them from adopting a large brood of children orphaned by the wars. Though Gray-worm would eventually die of the wasting sickness in 322AC, his wife live until the age of one hundred and twelve, serving three generations of Targaryen Queens and Kings until passing peacefully in her sleep.

Tyrion Lannister served many decades as Hand of the Queen. He eventually married a dark haired, green-eyed wildling woman named Arsa who gave him five children, three boys – Jorah, Jon, and Tywin - and two girls – Elia and Sansa- who would carry on the Lannister name and inheirate Casterly Rock after him. His marriage was a happy one, and he loved his children equally, giving them leave to presue their interests within reasons.

Bronn was gifted Highgarden as the seat to a new House, House Darkwater. He would marry Elia Sand, A daughter of Elira Sand and Oberyon Martell. The pair only had three children, all boys. Bronn proved to be a wise steward of his lands and people, and was one of the first places to thrive that first Spring.

Samwell Tarly never finished his chain, taking his place as Lord of House Tarly, and Lord Paramount of the Reach. He had wedded Gilly in the first year following the Winter War, not wanting the first child of his blood to bare the bastard stigma. The soft spoken woman giving him another four children, the last two being girls.

Six years into Daenerys reign, Sam traveled to King's Landing to petition the Queen and her Consort to open the halls of the Citadel to any and all who were interested in learning. It took another seven years to break down the barriers, but eventually the Arch Maesters were force to concede as the number of applicants to their order had dwindled, and the Maesters were a aging lot.

The Citadel would eventually become Westeros' first University.

\- - - -

Daenerys let out a soft happy sigh as she finally found Arya and Daena beneath the Heart-tree that she had had planted in the private gardens their first year here. Her ashen haired warrior princess was showing off what she learned from 'Uncle' Gray-Worm that day, her wife gently correcting their daughter's form when she floundered or made a misstep.

She hadn't originally been pleased when Daena, all of six at the time had pronounced at dinner that she wished to learn the sword just last year. But Arya had been convincing, and she knew that she was weak when her two favorite girls turned those sad gray puppy dog eyes on her, caving within a moment. Arya had been correct, the physical activity helped their wild and willful daughter sit still for her other studies, and she took her martial lessons very seriously, understanding that she was learning to wield weapons, not playing a game. Not that she would ever tell Arya that, her wolf could be insufferably smug sometimes.

Reaching down, she laid a hand on her lower stomach..

“Mhysa!” Daena shrieked in happy delight at seeing her silver haired mother. The girl dropped her practice sword and ran head long towards the Queen, who braced herself for impact. Her darling rabbit seem to remember herself though, and skidded to a stop, sketching a bow before tiny but strong arms wrapped around her waist.

Arya, with a throaty chuckle joined her family at a more sedated pace, enjoying the way hungry purple eyes followed the leisurely sway of her hips and the way the sun light played on the muscles of her exposed forearms.

“Hmm, Good news?” Arya murmured, nuzzling her nose into thick ashen hair before dropping a kiss to Dany's exposed neck, grinning against her skin at their daughter's over dramatic 'ewww'

She did not answer right away, choosing instead to grab Arya's left hand, and pressing it against the slight swell of her lower stomach, her breath catching in her throat at the way steel-gray eyes lit up as the younger woman caught on.

“It worked??”

“Yes. And this time you are _fully_ to blame.”

\- - - -

Alysanne Targaryen was born seven months later, with a headfull of dark hair and vibrant purple eyes.

The two sisters would grow into beautiful women. Alysanne studious and cunning with a dry wit learned from her Uncle Tyrion and a dragon's temperament for all her Northern coloring. Daena was more her mother's child, wild, and carefree, choosing the art of sword and bow and spear over the books her younger sister preferred.

Daenerys' reign lasted sixty-seven years, though it was not without issues, she ushered in a era of peace and prosperity that lasted until her children's children's children had grown old and gray. When death took her, it took her sleeping when she was in her early nineties, her wolf-consort followed three days after.

Daena Targaryen ascended the throne already a old woman, her reign was short, but peaceful. She was succeeded by her eldest son Eddard like his great grandfather was a fair and just man. And he in turn was followed by his eldest daughter Nymeria, who became heir when her brother Aemon abdicate the throne in favor of joining the Night's Watch.

Alysanne married a man and a woman from Dorne. It was considered a great scandal at the time, but eventually the gossips forgot about the Triad who spent many happy decades together, sharing nine children between them.

Eventually she became head of the Citadel University in Old Town, until she retired with her husband and wife to Dorne where she died a few years after her sister's passing.

Her children married for love, many into other noble houses. When a ashen haired, or purple eyed babe was born to a family who had no history of marrying the ruling line cropped up. Alysanne's name was usually brought up.

Drogon would have three more riders after Daeneryss. Daena for a time, the most willful of Dany's sons meeting his match in the most willful of her daughters, allowing the warrior princess to sore above the clouds upon his back when Dany was no longer able to ride herself. Then Eddard, and then finally Nymeria was the last to ride the great black dragon of her great grandmother before he passed of old age.

Rheagal too had other riders after Arya, younger children of his mother's brood, including Alysanne, and Daena's youngest granddaughter Elia. He eventually shifted to become a she, and laid a clench of eggs, and from them three more dragons woke into the world. Rhaegal would pass around the same time as Drogon, their skulls would remain within the great hall for generations after, as reminders of the Winter War, and the women who had rode them.

\- - - -

End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30,000 odd words, 54 pages, 3 weeks and there you have it. My longest completed story ever. Not bad considering I was actually taking a break from writing because life was busy. But when inspiration strikes.. it strikes hard. May this sooth the pain S7 inflected upon your hearts and souls. 
> 
> For those of you who are following Frosted Faith. Dont worry. I still intend to have the next chapter written and posted by the end of the month.


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